


Law and Disorder

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-06 09:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: When Aramis is abducted and held for trial in the Court of Miracles, it is up to Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan to prove him not guilty of Charon's murder.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! I finished another of the 4 stories I have started. Whew! Sorry it took so long. :) Summer is nice and warm and sunny and totally not conducive to sitting at a keyboard writing. But, I promised, so... here ya go! Hope ya'll enjoy! thank you to my wonderful beta, Sharlot, who stuck with me through the long process. You're a champ, girl!

Aramis gasped as the cold water brought him round. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, he gagged, choking as he tried to roll, thwarted by the bindings holding his wrists at the small of his back. Cracking his eyes open, he drew in a sharp breath as the fuzzy outlines of two men approached, each grabbing an arm and forcing him to his knees. Head bowed, eyes clenched tight against the pain pounding against his skull, he attempted to listen to the mumbled voices surrounding him, trying to remember how he’d come to find himself in such an untenable position.

The last memory he could dredge up in his addled mind was at the Wren with Porthos and d’Artagnan. He’d begged off early, his back and leg still sore from his plummet from Marmion’s window earlier that week. The bruises were healing, fading from dark blues and purples to greens and yellows, but the muscles still ached, and he had left his friends to their drinking and overall merriment to return to his rooms to rest. 

He shook his head despite the incessant pounding, clearing the water from his lashes, as he tried and failed to recall what had transpired immediately after his departure. 

Shuffling footsteps stopped directly before him and he tentatively raised his head, squinting up through the low illumination at the shadowed figure silhouetted against the torchlight.

“Aramis of the King’s Musketeers.” The shadow’s voice rumbled deep and low, and Aramis winced as it reverberated inside his aching head. “You stand accused of the murder of Charon, King of the Court of Miracles. How do you plead?”

“What?” Aramis gasped, disbelief clouding his voice. He momentarily thought it a sick joke, though the idea of even the Red Guard being this cruel was beyond comprehension. “You must be mad –“

The slap came out of nowhere. The force of the blow, coupled with the lack of warning to prepare, sent his senses reeling, a white flash exploding inside his skull. He slumped in the hold of the two men at his sides, his cheek burning, his recently won consciousness fading as his vision narrowed to blinding spots of light pulsing behind his closed lids. His tongue worried at his bottom lip, the taste of copper serving to incite his resolve and focus his attention on the threat before him.

“How do you plead?” The demand repeated through the ringing in his ears. 

He swallowed, forcing breath through his nose as he strained to lift his head. He opened his eyes, ignoring the black that crept along the edges, leveling his unfocused gaze at his shadowy accuser.

“Charon died by my hand,” Aramis admitted in a rough voice. “But it was not murder.” He schooled his expression, not allowing any of his anger or fear to show, knowing it would not serve him against his adversary. Charon had tried to kill Porthos – stab him in the back – it was only because of Aramis’ quick defense that his friend was still alive today. “He was not the man he professed to be.”

The shadow raised his hand as if to strike again and Aramis tensed for the blow, refused to look away, holding his ground. Charon had been in league with the Cardinal, betraying his own people for financial gain. He didn’t know if these men were ignorant of the man’s treachery or simply refused to believe it, but either way, Aramis would not – could not – show remorse for his actions.

“Enough!” Before the man could strike, an oddly familiar voice broke through the tension, and Aramis’ muddled brain scrambled to place the feminine tone. “We had an agreement, Tommen. He was not to be harmed.”

The shadow – Tommen – dropped his hand and turned, allowing Aramis a glimpse of the woman who had stepped in on his behalf. The torchlight flickered over the golden hair, highlighting a face he had expected to never see again.

Flea ignored the men holding the Musketeer and dropped to a crouch directly in front of him, shouldering Tommen back without fear. 

One corner of her mouth tipped up in a sardonic smile, her eyes raking Aramis’ battered countenance.

“Hello, Aramis,” she greeted, her dulcet tones gentle rather than grating in his ears. “You’ve looked better.”

He ran his tongue across the split in his lip, the taste of coppery blood sharp on his tongue. Grateful for the reprieve from further aggression, he managed a cocky grin as he met her gaze. “I’m thankful for your timely interference, my lady. I take it I have been spirited to the Court of Miracles?”

She chuckled, tipping her head in response. “Not just another pretty face, are ya?”

He smiled in earnest. “No, and it generally earns me a more hospitable welcome.” He glanced at Tommen, still standing behind her, arms tense across his chest, obviously irate that his entertainment had been cut short. “Though I will admit, your presence seems to have rendered the activities much more amenable.” He returned his gaze to her. “It is preferable to gaze upon such a lovely face when so rudely awoken.”

“Just because I don’t want to see you harmed, does not mean I feel anything other than basic human kindness.”

Aramis tilted his head in acceptance. “At the moment, I’ll take what I can get.” He did not know her well, but Porthos still spoke highly of her. Despite the fact their one and only meeting nearly a year before had resulted in pain and chaos for many of the Court’s denizens, Aramis trusted his friend’s judgment enough to currently put his fate in her hands… as if he had another choice.

Flea took a moment to assess the Musketeer, obviously finding his condition wanting under the circumstances. Aramis forced himself to remain still under her inspection, blinking owlishly as the pounding in his skull resumed with a vengeance. With a shake of her head, she looked up at the men still holding his arms. “Release him.”

They complied at once and Aramis fell forward upon the loss of their support. Flea managed to catch his shoulder before he hit the ground, and he grunted at the impact, reaching up to grab hold of her arm with a shaking hand. She remained quiet, allowing him a moment to steady himself before guiding him shakily to his feet. Once she was sure he would remain upright, she turned to Tommen, placing herself between the aggressor and the Musketeer.

“We had an agreement,” the diminutive woman accused. “You agreed he would be tried for his crime fairly.” She twisted, waving a hand at Aramis as he swayed behind her. “He was to be treated with respect.”

Tommen spat on the floor, the globular coming close to Aramis’ scuffed boots. “He deserves no respect,” the man hissed, dirty blonde hair falling across his brow. “You have no right to interfere. He must pay for what he’s done.”

His anger moved him forward, only to be met by Flea’s hand on his chest. To Aramis’ surprise, she showed no sign of intimidation even though Tommen towered over her. “We will see,” she responded, the steel in her voice cutting through Tommen’s rage. “But we will not act like the animals we are perceived to be. We will not kill a man until his guilt has been proven.”

Tommen laughed, the sound causing a shiver to crawl up Aramis’ spine. “A waste of time, if you ask me. He’s already confessed.”

“I admit that Charon died by my hand,” Aramis corrected. “Though anyone who witnessed it would not call it murder. If you speak with the others who were there – ” 

“Other Musketeers!” Tommen hissed. “They’d say anything to save your neck.”

“I was there also, Tommen,” Flea announced. “Do you believe I would lie to save this man?”

Tommen narrowed his eyes. “I’ve no idea what you would do for these dogs.” He shifted his heated gaze to Aramis before returning it to her. “Porthos considers him a brother. I no longer know where your loyalties lie.”

“Porthos once considered you a brother, too,” she chided. “Do you cast aside the past so easily?”

Tommen huffed a laugh, his eyes blazing in the low torchlight. “It was Porthos who cast us aside. He made his choice.” He stabbed a finger toward Aramis. “He chose them. He chose to leave us here to fend for ourselves.” He shifted forward, ignoring Flea’s low warning, invading Aramis’ space. “Porthos won’t be able to save you, Musketeer. You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

With a curt jerk of his head, he signaled the others to move, following them from the dank room, leaving Aramis and Flea behind.

Flea pulled a knife from her belt and deftly cut the cord binding the Musketeer’s hands.

Thankfully free from restraint, Aramis rolled his shoulders before reaching up to wipe the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

“Thank you.” He reached behind him, tentatively touching the spot on the back of his head where the pain was centered. His searching fingers found a large welt under the matted hair, but fortunately no blood.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she sighed, turning to face him. “I meant what I said to Tommen. You are to be tried for Charon’s murder.”

Aramis shook his head, frowning at her declaration. “You know as well as I that Charon’s death was the result of his own actions. It may have been my blade, but his own reckless decisions led to his demise.”

Flea crossed her arms on her chest and nodded. “I know. You had little choice. But the people here have no idea the depths of Charon’s betrayal. They still believe him worthy of their loyalty.”

“And you have yet to set them straight.” 

She dropped her gaze, unable to deny the Musketeer’s accusation. “It was Charon’s death that brought the people of the Court together to withstand the Cardinal’s attempt to destroy us. I did what I had to do at the time.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she ran a hand up and down her arm. Despite her resolve in the face of Tommen’s anger, she suddenly seemed fragile in the flickering light. “I did not expect anyone to try to avenge him. I thought once we were united against the Cardinal, we would be able to rebuild, stand stronger together.”

“Instead the anger has festered,” Aramis deduced. 

“For some,” she admitted, shaking her head sadly. “I hoped to contain it, get through to them, but Tommen…”

“I take it he would not listen to reason.”

Flea’s chuff of laughter held little humor. “That’s putting it mildly. With the Cardinal gone, he has been recruiting others to rise up, using the call for vengeance to incite them to action.” She replaced the knife on her belt and crossed her arms on her chest. “He wanted to have you executed. It was all I could do to get him to agree to a trial.”

“It appears I have already been condemned.”

“Tommen is angry, but will abide by our agreement. I’m hoping once he is convinced of the truth, both he and his followers will understand why I kept it from them all this time. Charon’s betrayal is not something the people here would take lightly.”

Aramis swallowed, nodding slowly. “I empathize with your plight,” he began. “But I don’t believe this trial would be in my best interest. Unless I am truly a prisoner?”

She returned his gaze evenly. “I’m sorry, Aramis.”

Aramis sighed. “Very well. If I am to be tried, I must insist my friends be notified. They are, after all, witness to my innocence.”

Flea nodded in acknowledgement. “I will see they are informed, though I am not sure their testimony will be welcome.”

“You know Porthos. You know they will come for me,” Aramis cautioned. “If you want the truth to be known, if the people here are to understand what really happened, you will make sure their words are heard.”

Flea sighed. “You’re right. I will send word to Porthos.” She looked at him with regret shining in her eyes. “But I cannot allow you to go free. I will do what I can to protect you, but you will remain under guard until a verdict has been reached.”

“And if that verdict is guilty?”

Her lips thinned as she squared her shoulders. “These are good people. They will understand.” 

Aramis chuckled mirthlessly, his eyes on the door Tommen and his men had passed through moments ago. “I would like to believe you, but…” he touched the back of his head, wincing at the tender bump growing beneath his hair.

Flea shrugged, but managed an apologetic smile. “Tommen and his followers do not represent the majority of the Court. But, if I fail to convince them of your innocence, I am sure your friends will have a few ideas on how to make them see reason.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos scraped the last of the bread through the thin soup Serge had prepared for the morning meal. He much preferred the days when a hearty bowl of warm porridge awaited him, but now that Rochefort had begun his campaign to impugn the regiment’s reputation, it was becoming more and more difficult to feed a regiment on the coin the King allowed, and sometimes the old cook had to stretch the money in order to make it last the month. At least the soup was hot, the crusty bread absorbing the juice, giving it a slightly nutty flavor that settled in his stomach quite nicely.

He looked up as d’Artagnan and Athos approached, both setting their weapons on the table before taking seats opposite him.

“I see Aramis has yet to grace us with his presence,” d’Artagnan observed, reaching for a chunk of bread and the squat jar of honey sitting on the tray in the center of the table. “He left earlier than usual last night. Do you think we should check on him?”

They’d all noticed how stiffly the marksman had been moving since the encounter with Marmion days ago. Though he claimed to be nothing more than bruised and sore, they had all kept a close eye on him, knowing if he was truly hurt, the signs would come more from his actions than his words.

“He was moving slowly but seemed to be in good spirits,” Athos remarked. He poured himself a cup of warmed wine from the decanter on the table and leaned forward, forearms on the weathered top as he took a sip. “I expect we’ll see him soon.”

“Unless he’s still in some lovely’s bed,” d’Artagnan smirked.

Porthos laughed but shook his head. “Nah, ‘e wouldn’t let that hold him up. Besides, whoever this mysterious new woman he’s been seeing is, he’s not likely to risk her by allowing Treville to take note of his truancy.”

Athos’ contribution was a grunted agreement. 

They passed the time in idle chatter, each eating or drinking their fill until the Captain called for morning muster. If he noticed that one of his more spirited Musketeers was missing, he didn’t make an issue of it, though the pointed looks he threw their way made them suspect the absence of their fourth had been noted.

As soon as Treville had retreated to his office, Athos drained his cup and pushed himself from the table.

“The Captain is not happy.”

Porthos rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “That’s putting it lightly.” Treville had enough to worry about with Rochefort whispering in Louis’ ears. Since his demotion, the men of the regiment refused to treat the Captain any differently, still showing him the respect and consideration he deserved. Aramis knew this and wouldn’t purposely place further burden on Treville’s shoulders. Though Porthos was irritated with his friend for upsetting Treville, he couldn’t help the twinge of worry that crept into his annoyance. Aramis was hardly one for watching the clock, but he would never miss muster unless it was unavoidable. Although he had seemed fine the previous evening, he was still moving stiffly, lacking his normal fluid grace, and Porthos couldn’t help but wonder whether the marksman’s reticence in responding to inquiries of his condition these last few days had been to cover something more serious than simple cuts and bruises. “You two head on out, I’ll go by his rooms and find out what’s what.”

Whether by design or Treville’s good graces, they had been assigned to guard duty at the palace for the morning, allowing them some leeway in reporting.

Athos nodded, leading the others toward the stables. As they approached, they noticed a young boy at the front gate, attempting – unsuccessfully – to gain access to the garrison. The boy was dressed in rags, obviously from the slums, and he was furtively arguing with the guards on duty, holding something in his hands as he tried to push past their defenses.

The boy was determined, causing the two guards on duty at the gate to be a bit rough with him. Never one to stand idly by and allow an innocent to be harassed – even from his own brothers – Porthos broke from his path and made his way to the archway. “What’s this now?” He puffed out his chest, his hands hooked in his belt, staring at the boy, stopping his argument mid-plea.

“He says he has a message for you,” Michelle, a newer recruit who took his duty very seriously, explained. “But he won’t tell us what it is. And we can’t allow him access until we know his intent.”

Porthos nodded at the recruit, silently commending him on his astuteness and dedication to duty, before turning his attention to the boy. He narrowed his eyes, assessing the lad and stepped between him and the guard, dropping down to his haunches to bring their eyes level. The boy stared, open-mouthed, at the impressive bulk of the Musketeer.

“I’m Porthos. You have a message for me?” Porthos asked, allowing a grin to lift one corner of his mouth. “Have we met?”

The boy shook his head. “No, sir.” He swallowed, eyes wide as he regarded Porthos, his feet seemingly frozen to the ground.

Porthos couldn’t help but chuckle at the look of awe that graced the boy’s face. “Well?” he asked after a moment of silence, leaning into the lad’s space. “’aven’t got all day.”

The boy leaned back, startled at the Musketeers proximity. He licked his lips nervously as he reached behind him. Porthos tensed, unsure of what the lad had hidden, but was completely unprepared for what the lad presented. When the boy brought his hand around front, it held a very familiar looking blue and green peacock feather.

Porthos’ amusement died instantly.

“Where did you get his?” He snatched the feather and rose to his feet, leveling an intimidating stare at the boy. He held up the feather, shaking it for emphasis. “This belongs to a friend of mine. He wouldn’t’ve let it go lightly.”

The boy took a step back as if preparing to run, but Porthos darted a hand out and latched on to a boney arm before the child could make good his escape.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, boy. Where did you get this feather?”

“F-F-Flea,” came the stuttered reply.

Hearing the name of his old flame was unexpected and Porthos released the boy as if burned. The youth took advantage of the Musketeer’s surprise and sprinted away, ducking into an alley and disappearing from view.

“Should we go after him?” Michelle asked eagerly, ready to give pursuit, but Porthos shook his head, his eyes trained on the feather in his hand. It was bent about halfway up, the normally vibrant colors stained by what he hoped was only dried mud and dirt. 

“That looks like the feather from Aramis’ hat.”

Porthos nodded as d’Artagnan and Athos approached from behind. The big man stood rigid, his gaze toward the street, his vision focused on the memory surfacing in his mind.

It has been almost a year since he’d seen Flea, agreeing to stay away from the Court for her sake as well as his own. They’d been able to thwart the Cardinal’s scheme to destroy the Court of Miracles, but at a high cost. Charon’s deception had hurt them both, and though Porthos would never understand his old friend’s decision to destroy all he’d held dear for the weight of a few coins, he knew Flea had taken his deceit much more personally.

He still felt a rush of excitement whenever he thought of the woman he had been so close to when he was a denizen of the Court, but he knew there was no future for them and had agreed to move on, knowing she would never be a part of his world, and he could never return to hers.

“Porthos?”

He swallowed, shaking his head lightly to clear the memories from his mind. Whatever reason Flea had for sending this message, Porthos could only assume it did not bode well for Aramis. He turned to Athos and d’Artagnan, patiently waiting for an explanation and held up the feather. “Flea sent it.”

Athos eyes narrowed. “For what purpose?”

Porthos took a deep breath through his nose and released it through pursed lips. He had no idea why his former lover would have something so personal of Aramis’ in her possession, but the message was clear. It was a summons, and he had no choice but to answer it. He tucked the feather into his belt and pushed past his friends toward the stables. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They were met with resistance at the entrance to the Court of Miracles, five men standing guard, obviously awaiting their arrival, blocking their path. Porthos dismounted, holding out the reins of his horse to Athos who took them with a silent nod. The order to be careful was unspoken but understood.

“We’re here to see Flea,” Porthos announced as he approached the guards. He glanced at each of them in turn, his gaze settling on one he easily recognized from his days in the Court. “Tommen, it’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” the man retorted. 

Tommen leaned in an open doorway to their right, arms crossed on his chest. His smug smile sent a cold sliver of rage through Porthos, and the Musketeer forced himself to clamp down on it lest he make matters worse.

“So she managed to get word to ya, did she? That didn’t take long. Guess it’s not surprising that Flea beckons and you come running. Who knew Musketeers were so easy to keep?”

Porthos bristled at the man’s words but refused to be baited. “Where’s Aramis?”

Tommen pushed himself off the door and sauntered into the street, standing before Porthos like a challenge.

“He’s still in one piece, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His taunting grin was infuriating and Porthos clenched his fists at his sides. “She insisted, you know. Maybe you’re not the only Musketeer Flea’s sweet on, huh?”

Porthos returned his smile, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Good thing for you she did. If anything happens to him, there’ll be no place you can hide from me.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of hiding from you, Porthos. As a matter of fact, I’d settle this right now except I gave her my word I would play by her rules.”

“And just what rules are those?”

“Your boy keeps breathing until he’s found guilty.” Tommen smiled and Porthos’ skin went cold at the hatred in his old friend’s eyes. “But I’ll let Flea explain it all to you.” He looked past the Musketeer at Athos and d’Artagnan still mounted on their horses. “Only you.”

Porthos grunted his agreement then turned and stomped his way back to the others. 

“You’re not really going to go in there alone?” d’Artagnan asked quietly, his eyes flicking from Tommen to the other men scattered about. “Five against one is hardly good odds.”

Porthos grunted in agreement. “Not really a lot of choices here. They’ve got Aramis.”

“What did he mean ‘until he’s found guilty?” Athos wondered, his brow furrowed, his gaze trained on Tommen across the narrow street. “Guilty of what?”

“No idea,” Porthos responded. He unbuckled his weapons belt and handed it to the swordsman. “But from what he said, Flea’s still in control of the situation, so I have to trust her.”

“I know you have a history with this woman –“ Athos began but was cut off by the look in Porthos’ eyes.

“She’s a good woman,” he assured them. “She wouldn’t have sent the feather if she meant him harm.”

“Then what do you think is going on?” d’Artagnan prodded. “What could they possibly want with Aramis?”

Porthos glanced back over his shoulder at the men waiting for him. “I have a feeling this has something to do with Charon.” He tilted his head toward Tommen. “That man there was one of Charon’s favorites. He and I didn’t really see eye to eye on most things, but he was loyal to Charon.”

“And Charon died by Aramis’ blade.” Athos concluded.

“But Charon was in league with the Cardinal,” d’Artagnan argued. “He tried to blow them all up before attempting to stab you in the back. How can they hold Aramis accountable for that?” 

Porthos shook his head and shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Either they don’t know what really happened or are looking for leverage against Flea. Either way, I think they mean to take their vengeance on Aramis and right now she’s the only thing standin’ in their way.”

“And you believe she can prevail?”

“She knows the truth,” Porthos’ voice was adamant. “Aramis isn’t guilty of anythin’. No way she’d allow anythin’ to happen to ‘im.”

“Which is why she sent for you,” Athos concluded. “We will remain here. If you are not back within the hour, we will return with reinforcements.”

Porthos nodded. “If I’m not back in an hour, do what you have to do. Find Aramis, get him out.”

“And you?”

Porthos straightened his shoulders and turned back to the men of the Court. “Just find Aramis. I’ll be fine.” 

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

As far as imprisonment went, Aramis found he had little to complain about. Not trusting Tommen to keep his word, Flea had kept Aramis near, allowing him the freedom to roam her rooms, trusting his promise that he would not attempt to escape unless his life was in danger.

Of course, his life was in danger despite the semblance of hospitality afforded him. Flea’s rooms were not lavish, but they were comfortable, and for now, he was safe from those who meant him harm. Information he’d gleaned from Porthos over the years had led him to assume everyone in the Court of Miracles lived in abject poverty, but while the accommodations and furnishings in the small sitting room he currently occupied were worn and frayed, they were clean and gave off a feeling of warmth and comfort that was unexpected.

His hostess had even gone so far as to have some wine and crusty bread brought to him. The wine was thin but sweet and the bread freshly baked, so Aramis accepted the generosity graciously, allowing the pretense of courtesy to outweigh the gravity of the situation for the time being.

“Is the wine not to your liking?”

Aramis tipped his cup toward Flea as she sauntered back into the room after having a conference with one of her guards in the hallway.

“It is fine,” he said with a forced smile. “I appreciate the civility you are showing.”

She smiled and crossed the small room, pouring herself a cup. “You’re not my enemy, Aramis.”

“It’s a shame all your people do not feel the same.”

“They will,” she assured him, shrugging apologetically. “The Cardinal and his Red Guards treated us with nothing but contempt. This has given the people cause for their hatred. I’m afraid that sentiment has trickled down to the Musketeers as well.” She crossed to the stool directly in front of the chaise he sat on and scrutinized him, one hand on her hip, her head cocked in thought.

He raised his brow, nonplussed at the attention, and grinned. “See something you like?”

She chuckled, raising her cup in salute before taking a sip. “You are very pretty, but not exactly my type.”

Aramis nodded knowingly, his grin widening. “Let me guess your type; tall, dark, broad shoulders… loud booming laugh?” 

She smiled. “Sounds about right.” She continued to study him, perhaps attempting to unnerve him, severely underestimating his brashness.

Finally, Flea rose and took a seat beside him on the chaise. Aramis leaned toward her, close enough to smell the sweet scent of the wine on her breath.

“I don’t suppose Porthos would understand if we gave into our more primal urges right now, would he?”

“You’re quite sure of yourself, monsieur.” Flea smiled. “What would Porthos think of your boldness?”

“Porthos would say one of you is an idiot and the other is completely mad.”

Neither of them flinched at the familiar voice from the doorway, but their eyes crinkled, their smiles widening at the intrusion.

Flea didn’t take her eyes from Aramis’. “I believe we’ve just been insulted.”

Aramis smirked in return, holding her gaze. “So it would seem. But which insult should we claim?”

Flea tilted her head as if considering before responding. “I would like to think he would refrain from calling me an idiot.” Her voice rose, making the statement sound more like question.

“Porthos may be a bit lacking in fine etiquette, but I cannot see him using such a foul description for such a lovely lady,” Aramis agreed. “I, on the other hand, am quite familiar with the term.” He paused, pursing his lips in thought. “Still, that means he believes you mad.”

Flea took a deep breath and turned her head just enough to see Porthos from the corner of her eye. “I can live with that.”

The big Musketeer stood just inside the door, arms crossed on his chest, his lips a thin line of annoyance. “You two done?”

Aramis pretended to just notice his friend’s arrival. “Porthos! We were just speaking of you. It is good of you to come so quickly.”

Porthos crossed the room, eyeing both of them with exasperation. “This isn’t exactly the scene I was expectin’.” He stood before Aramis, his eyes raking the marksman up and down, obviously looking for injury. His gaze stopped at the split lip and bruised cheek, his own eyes narrowing dangerously at the damage to his friend’s face. “You all right?”

Aramis smiled then winced, reaching a hand to brush at the tear in his lip. “My arrival was somewhat painful, but I have been treated well since.”

Porthos placed a hand under his friend’s chin and tilted his head to the side, grunting his opinion of the matter. “Let me guess,” the big man growled. “Tommen?”

“So you’ve spoken?” Aramis nodded. “Let’s just say he was less than gentle with his request for my presence.”

“I’ll kill him.”

Flea stood abruptly, her hands on her hips, fire in her eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. Harm Tommen and you only create another martyr.”

Porthos sighed in annoyance and dropped his hand, turning to confront his former lover. “What the hell is going on?” He reached to his belt and pulled Aramis’ ruffled feather from the leather. “Why did you send me this? What’s he even doing here?”

Flea held up a hand. “I’ll explain everything.” She gestured to the chair across from the chaise. “Please, sit.”

Aramis laid a hand on his friend’s tense arm. “Porthos, please. Just hear her out.” 

At first Porthos didn’t respond, just stood glaring at the woman, but finally he shook his head in resignation, taking the offered seat. “This had better be good.”

Aramis plucked the feather from Porthos’ grasp, tutting dramatically at the damage to the plume. 

Ignoring his friend’s theatrics, Porthos sat back with raised brows, waiting expectantly.

Flea took another sip of wine and a deep breath before beginning. “Aramis is to be put on trial for Charon’s murder --”

Porthos bounded to his feet in a flash. “That’s absurd! You know as well as I –“

“It’s the only way!” Flea interrupted. “Tommen and his followers are insistent. They want vengeance and they know it was Aramis who ended Charon’s life. I couldn’t allow them to simply kill him! This was the only way I could get them to agree to hear me out!”

“Hear you out?” Porthos spat in reply. “Charon betrayed you all! For money! Why would anyone want to avenge him?”

“They don’t know the truth of what happened,” Flea admitted. “Please. Just let me explain.”

Porthos shook his head, his face dark with fury. “There’s nothin’ to explain. Your people took my friend – a Musketeer – against his will. No explanation is goin’ to make that acceptable.” 

Aramis rose, laying a hand on his friend’s arm to calm him. “Please, Porthos. Hear her out. I gave her my word I would see this through, but if you don’t agree, I promise you I will leave here with you no matter the consequences.”

Porthos looked to him, incredulous. “You agreed to this?”

“It was after the fact,” he admitted, touching his tender lip. “But yes. I agreed the truth needed to come out. If Flea believes this is the best way to set things straight, I am willing to bow to her wisdom.” He nodded his head to the woman and she smiled at his obvious show of flattery.

Porthos rolled his eyes. “And what if they don’t see things straight, huh? Did you consider that?”

Aramis shrugged tiredly. “No. Not really. We all know Charon was not murdered. He was already guilty of treachery and betrayal, and his death was of his own choosing. Though I regret being the instrument of his demise, I will never apologize for foiling his attempt on your life. Flea assures me the people of the Court will see reason and not condemn me for actions undertaken to protect a life as precious to me as my own.”

Aramis’ words had the desired effect and Porthos’ shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Fine,” he reluctantly agreed. “But I’m not goin’ to let this become a mockery of justice.” He leveled his eyes at Flea. “If we’re goin’ to do this, we’re goin’ to do it right. He should have someone on his side,” he stated formerly. “I want Athos to act as his counselor. D’Artagnan and I are witnesses to the event in question, and I expect our accounts to be heard.”

Flea nodded her acceptance of the terms. “I will make sure of it. In the meantime, Aramis is under my protection. I give you my word he will not be harmed.”

Porthos turned back to his friend. “I’ll have to go back and inform Treville. I can’t guarantee he’s goin’ to like it, but I’ll do all I can to make him see it your way.”

Aramis smiled. “Thank you, Porthos. I have no doubt the Captain will understand.” He glanced at Flea and lowered his voice, though she was close enough to hear every word. “And have a back-up plan in place, just in case.”

Porthos slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Count on it.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Captain Treville sat back in his chair, eyeing the three Musketeers who stood before him.

“Let me get this straight,” he began. “One of my men was abducted off the street and taken to the Court of Miracles and is being held captive by a group of people who want to try him for a murder he didn’t commit? And the three of you left him there – unarmed – in the custody of this woman…”

“Flea,” Porthos supplied.

“Flea,” the Captain repeated, unimpressed. “With the understanding that she would protect him from the men who wish him harm.”

The three soldiers exchanged quick glances. D’Artagnan shrugged a shoulder while Athos sighed through his nose, nodding once in acknowledgement. “It wasn’t as if we were equipped to charge the Court and force them to hand him over,” he explained. 

“And Aramis did kill Charon,” d’Artagnan offered. “It just wasn’t murder,” he added hastily at the twin looks of exasperation sent his way from the others.

“Does this have something to do with what happened last year?” Treville inquired. “When Richelieu tried to clear the Court rather… explosively?”

“There was an old friend of mine working with the Cardinal,” Porthos informed him. “He didn’t exactly take kindly to us stopping him from followin’ through on his plans, and he tried to kill me. Aramis stopped him.”

Treville sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “And they are calling it murder.”

“It’s… complicated,” Porthos admitted.

“So it would seem.” Treville glared at each of them in turn before shaking his head ruefully. “I have to take this to the King.”

Athos stepped forward. “If I may, Captain?” He waited for Treville’s nod before continuing. “We would like to see this through before involving His Majesty.”

“These people have abducted a Musketeer,” Treville reminded him. “The King does not look favorably upon any threat to his personal guard.”

Athos nodded, conceding the point. “I understand that, sir, but these people are not our enemy. They have been misled and lied to and have little trust for authority. If you inform the King, Rochefort will use the information to his own advantage proving to the King we are not even capable of protecting our own, let alone the royal family.”

“Rochefort may well order the Red Guard to march on the Court,” d’Artagnan added. “I doubt Aramis would be allowed to survive such a show of force.”

“So what would you propose?” Treville asked after a few moments of contemplative silence.

“Let us handle the situation for now,” Athos requested. “If we allow the trial to go through, the truth of the matter will come out.” He waved a hand to either side of him. “We were all there as witness to what happened, as was Flea. Together we will be able to convince the people of the Court Aramis had no choice but to do what he did and we will hopefully be able to resolve the conflict with little or no bloodshed.”

Treville took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“All right. I will allow this farce of a trial to take place.” He trained his eyes on Athos. “Do you believe you can convince these people that Aramis’ acts were lawful under the circumstances?”

Athos exchanged a quick glance with Porthos, then shrugged. “I will do all I can, although I admit they are rather suspicious of anyone in a uniform. It will be difficult to make them see past that and act without prejudice.”

“These people aren’t criminals, Captain,” Porthos interjected. “Some are, but the majority of them are just decent people, scrapin’ by any way they can. They’ll understand once the facts are presented.”

After a few moments of contemplation, Treville nodded. “Be careful. I will keep the regiment on alert. If at any time you feel this going south, send word. I can have troops there within minutes.”

“Thank you Captain,” Porthos nodded and followed d’Artagnan out the door.

“Athos.”

The swordsman turned at Treville’s call, his brows high in query.

“If you fail, I will have little choice but to inform the King and allow him to pass whatever penalty on the Court he deems fitting.”

Athos nodded. “Understood.”

“Bring Aramis back.”

“That is our intent.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis sighed as the loud discussion continued outside the closed door of Flea’s sitting room. He knew the woman was fighting to keep him with her where she could assure his safety, but Tommen was adamant and he feared she was rapidly losing ground. Finally, after a few moments of silence, the door opened and Flea walked back into the room.

“So I am to be removed from your hospitality?” he surmised from the fiery look in her eyes.

She nodded, her voice tight with anger. “He is insisting you be held somewhere more secure.”

Aramis grunted a laugh. “He doesn’t trust you.”

“Tommen doesn’t trust anyone.” Her voice was still angry, but he could read the apology in her expression. “I’m sorry, Aramis. I’m trying to keep the peace but…”

“It’s difficult when someone does not want to face the truth.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “I’ve explained what happened! I’ve told him what Charon did. Why won’t he listen?”

“Sometimes it’s difficult to admit those whom we admire are as fallible as the rest of us.”

“Like the King?”

Aramis chuckled at her naivety. “Though I have pledged my life to the crown, I hardly hold the King on such a pedestal.”

Flea smiled, her brows rising in surprise. “You should be careful, Musketeer. Those words could be taken as treason.”

“I believe my present company is quite skilled at keeping secrets.”

She ticked her head to the side in agreement. “Then who, pray tell, does a Musketeer hold in high regard?”

Aramis though for a moment; the Queen… but that was a sentiment best left unsaid. “My brothers, of course. And my Captain. Treville is one of the finest men I’ve ever known, though I no longer see him as incapable of making mistakes.”

Flea crossed her arms, intrigued. “You do not follow his orders blindly?”

“Hardly,” Aramis rolled his eyes. “Athos would insist I only follow those I deem worthy, but I am a soldier, and it is my duty to see those orders through, just perhaps not exactly as they are given.”

“Even if you don’t agree with them?”

“Especially when I don’t agree with them.” Aramis rose from the settee he’d been resting on. “I have learned the hard way that orders are only as solid as the men who give them. Not all men consider the cost before they act.”

“Like Charon?”

Aramis shrugged. “Perhaps. He saw a way out, but he didn’t consider the price of that freedom.”

“I wish I could make Tommen understand that.”

The door opened behind her and Tommen’s impatient face appeared in the crack. “Enough talk,” he announced. He pushed the door open further and stood back, motioning for Aramis to move from the room. As soon as Aramis crossed the threshold, Tommen grabbed him and swung him around, roughly shoving him into the wall. He yanked Aramis’ arms behind him and brusquely bound his wrists with coarse rope. 

Flea followed, stopping in the doorway as two more men arrived to escort the prisoner. “I’m holding you to your word, Tommen. No one is to lay a hand on him.”

The big man’s smile did not fill Aramis with security. “No one will touch him.” He yanked Aramis away from the wall and pushed him toward the stairs. “Until it is time for him to pay for his crime.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Tommen led the way out of the building and into the street, the other men forming a guard around him. Aramis tried to keep track of the turns they made but became lost as they led him down an alley to a small building nearly hidden in the shadows. The building was short, barely higher than his head, the thatched roof dark and beginning to decay. There was one window right next to the heavy wood door, boarded shut with stained planks fitted tightly together. Tommen stopped in front of the door and lifted the heavy beam that secured it from the outside. They’d obviously used this prison before, and Aramis wasn’t eager to step inside the confining space.

“Flea told you what Charon did. You understand his deception, don’t you?”

Tommen threw open the door and stood back, glaring as the Musketeer continued.

“And you know why he was killed. Yet you continue to defend him as if he were a hero. Why?”

The big man glanced at the guards, motioning them away. As they moved out of range, he stepped forward and grabbed Aramis by the arm, yanking him off balance and pushing him into the dank room. Aramis stumbled into the back of a rickety chair just inside the doorway, saving himself from a painful landing on the stone floor.

“I don’t answer to you, Musketeer,” Tommen grinned. “Enjoy your stay.”

Before Aramis could respond, the door slammed shut and he heard the beam slide home. Squinting through the oppressive darkness, Aramis felt the stale air pressing down on him and shuffled to the furthest corner of the room just opposite the shuttered window. The planks covering it let in little light and not even a hint of a breeze, and the marksman knew he would quickly grow uncomfortable in the stale heat. Turning he slid down the rough wood and landed on a thin cushion that lay on the floor. He drew his legs close and leaned his head back against the splintered wall wondering exactly who his captor did answer to.

TBC


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Athos and d’Artagnan accompanied Porthos back to the entrance of the Court of Miracles. The men on guard had obviously been told to expect them and to allow them through, though they didn’t attempt to hide their disdain for the soldiers. Complying with Flea’s promise of safe passage, no one hindered their movements. D’Artagnan was aware of the people watching them, some with open hostility on their faces, but most with simple curiosity as if they were some kind of oddity they had never seen. Porthos ignored the stares, leading his friends to the rundown building that housed Flea’s rooms. The younger Musketeer followed his friend’s lead, knowing once they arrived they would not only be safe, but free of the shadowed eyes that followed them.

He could only imagine how Aramis felt being held prisoner in the midst of such hostility and mistrust.

By the time they arrived, a small crowd had gathered behind them, their presence bringing more than a few low whispers and one or two calls of animosity from men he assumed were with Tommen, the man Porthos had told them had initiated Aramis’ capture. He would’ve liked to meet this Tommen face to face and let him know exactly what he thought of his sense of justice, but he knew it would only make things worse. He looked forward to testifying in Aramis’ defense in this farce of a trial Flea had planned, setting the record straight and clearing his friend’s name. Even if Flea could get the rest of the people of the Court to understand what had happened and why, there was still the issue of Tommen and his men abducting a Musketeer off the streets. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if even Aramis’ forgiving nature could excuse the act. He was fairly sure the King would not.

Once inside the building, the stares and whispers behind them, d’Artagnan found himself looking with wonder at his surroundings. The building looked badly maintained from the outside, but he was surprised to find the inside rather homey. It reminded him of the garrison a bit – uncluttered, simple yet comfortable. Personal touches had been added throughout, the furniture worn but adequate. The deep purple cloths draped from the windows made the dwelling seem much more feminine than his own rooms, and he could see the pride the woman had taken in making her home as tasteful and cozy as possible.

“Welcome,” Flea stood waiting for them as they entered her lodgings. “I hope you did not encounter any trouble?”

Athos stepped forward to speak for them. “The crowds were not hostile, but it was apparent our presence was not welcomed.”

Flea sighed, her smile tight. “I apologize. My people are mistrustful. But you are here now and I hope you will accept our hospitality for the duration of your stay.”

“Where’s Aramis?”

Flea tensed at Porthos’ inquiry, knowing the big man would not be happy with Tommen’s latest demand. “Tommen insisted on keeping him somewhere more… secure.” At Porthos’ expected growl of displeasure, she hastily continued. “I assured him I had Aramis’ promise of cooperation, but with the three of you here, he believed it wiser to move him to a different location until the trial.”

“If I am to act as his counsel, I demand to see him,” Athos insisted.

“I expected as much.” Flea crossed to the door and opened it, whispering to the man standing just outside before turning back to the Musketeers. “Anton will take you to him,” she explained. She held up a hand as all three men made to move toward the door. “Just Athos.” Her eyes flicked between Porthos’ stormy countenance and d’Artagnan’s questioning gaze. “I’m afraid I had to agree to some concessions. Athos will be granted access, but since the two of you are witnesses, you will not be allowed to speak to him until your testimony is heard.”

“That wasn’t the agreement,” Porthos growled.

“I know.” Flea crossed the short distance between them and placed a hand on the big Musketeer’s broad chest. D’Artagnan’s brow rose in amusement when Porthos leaned into the touch. “The situation is… delicate,” Flea continued in a softer voice. “Please, Porthos. I am doing all I can to ensure not only Aramis’ safety, but yours as well.”

“Sounds to me like you’re letting Tommen make the rules.”

She dipped her head, acknowledging the accusation. “Perhaps. But I believe it is best for now to give him what he demands.” She dropped her hand and leveled her gaze at him. “I do not wish to fight Tommen. It will only make him think he is right. I have his word Aramis will not be harmed while in his custody. Until he shows me otherwise, I have to believe he will honor it.”

“Until he kills him you mean.”

“It won’t come to that.”

Porthos took a deep breath and let it out forcefully through his nose. “Fine, but he better be all right. I didn’t exactly appreciate Tommen’s version of friendliness before.”

“I have sent one of the men loyal to me with him,” she assured him. “He will not allow anyone to get near your friend.” She turned back to the others. “You will all be accompanied by one of my men while you are inside the Court – for your own protection, of course. Please promise me you will not try to take matters into your own hands.”

Realizing the others were relying on his judgment, Porthos finally nodded. He caught Athos’ eye and d’Artagnan knew an entire conversation had taken place between the two men before the swordsman turned and followed Flea’s man out the door.

Another younger man appeared in the open doorway and Flea motioned him forward before turning her attention to d’Artagnan. “This is Felix. He will be your escort.”

“Escort to where?” d’Artagnan asked, eyeing the young man up and down. From his stance, d’Artagnan guessed Felix was not much older than him, but his face was smooth as a baby’s bottom, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but rub at the sparse whiskers adorning his own face.

“You will be housed in a room a few doors from here.” Flea explained. “Someone will come for you when it is time to testify.”

D’Artagnan looked to Porthos who shrugged, obviously not liking that they were being split up any more than he did. 

“I give you my word none of you will be harmed.”

Flea’s promise did little to ease his mind, but at Porthos nod, the young Musketeer motioned for Felix to lead the way.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos followed Flea’s man to a ramshackle hut set back from the street in a dank alley. When the two men guarding the door stepped forward, barring their way, his escort held up a hand, waiting until Athos came to a halt before moving closer to explain why they were there. Athos ignored the looks of disdain thrown his way, taking a moment to study the prison where his friend was being held. The building was small, the sides worn wood, but solid enough. There was one window beside the closed door; it was shuttered, keeping what little light leaked into the alley from entering. 

The air in the alley was heavy, hot and pungent with the odors of waste, and he could only imagine how stifling it would be inside without benefit of open windows or doors to allow even the hint of a breeze to cool the air. He hoped Aramis had at least been allowed water while he remained inside the dreary room, or he would have to report to Porthos his former flame was being less than truthful.

After a few moments of intense discussion, the guards stood aside and Athos’ escort jutted his chin toward the building, indicating it was now safe for the Musketeer to proceed. Anxious as to his friend’s condition, Athos wasted no time opening the door and entering the small room.

The light from the alley barely penetrated the darkness within, but what he could see was enough to make Athos’ blood boil. The room was mostly devoid of furniture save for a rickety table and two chairs sitting in the center of the room. On the far side, opposite the shuttered window, a thin mattress lay on the floor, their missing marksman slumped atop it.

Aramis had wedged himself into the corner of the room, one knee drawn up, the other leg lying along the length of the mattress. His arms were bent behind him uncomfortably, obviously bound at the small of his back, his head rested against the wall beside him. The heat inside the small room was unbearable and the marksman’s linen shirt was drenched with sweat and clinging to him like a second skin. He didn’t move as Athos stomped across the narrow space, only rolling his head against the wood as the swordsman kneeled down beside him.

“Aramis?” Athos laid a hand on his friend’s flushed face, frowning at the heat he felt emanating from the man’s skin. Aramis’ breath puffed in and out of his lips in quick, short gasps, the stagnant air hampering his ability to take in what his over-heated body required. 

“I need water,” Athos ordered over his shoulder. “Now!” His tone broke no argument and he was pleased to see Anton move quickly to fulfill the command. Returning his attention to Aramis, he patted the man’s cheek, relieved to find the dark eyes cracked open at his call. Aramis blinked, attempting and failing to focus on Athos’ face. After a few moments he gave up, allowing his lids to drift closed once more.

“No, Aramis,” Athos shook him, urging his friend to open his eyes again. “Stay awake.”

Aramis moaned at the rough treatment but forced his eyes wider, trying to obey the command.

Anton returned with a bucket of water and a rough wooden bowl, setting the bucket on the ground next to Athos’ knee. The Musketeer dipped the bowl into the cool water and upended it over the marksman’s head, releasing his friend’s shoulder and pushing the wet hair from his eyes with his other hand. He dipped the bowl and poured more water over Aramis’ head, ignoring the marksman’s sputtered grunts of disapproval. After he was thoroughly drenched, Athos brought the bowl to Aramis’ lips and encouraged the man to drink.

Aramis leaned forward, trying to take in more of the water than was good for him, only to choke and cough as he tried to swallow between gasping breaths.

“Easy,” Athos soothed, pulling the bowl away so that Aramis could take a breath. “There’s plenty more. Take it slowly. You know this.”

Aramis nodded and leaned his head back, his Adam’s apple jumping as he swallowed roughly. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, drawing air noisily into his lungs as the cooler air from the open door began to temper the oppressive heat of the room.

“That’s it,” Athos held the bowl back up to his friend’s lips. “Just breathe, Aramis.”

The captive man took another drink, this time allowing the water to flow into his mouth as Athos tipped the bowl instead of trying to suck it in by force. After a few moments he grunted in satisfaction and leaned back, licking the moisture from his cracked lips. Athos dropped the bowl into the bucket and smiled when he returned his gaze to Aramis, noting his friend’s dark eyes beginning to clear. Aramis shifted, his shoulders rolling, a wince of pain lighting his face. Athos reached for his dagger, sighing in frustration as he remembered they had agreed to enter the Court unarmed.

“Stay still,” he ran a hand through his friend’s sodden curls. “I’ll get a knife to release your arms.”

Aramis stomped his right foot, drawing his friend’s attention. “No need,” he rasped, his voice rough, weary. “They were not as thorough as they’d hoped when they searched me.”

Athos pressed his fingers into the inside of Aramis right boot, smiling as he felt the cool metal grip of the stiletto blade he kept hidden there for emergencies. Looking over his shoulder to see if they were being observed, Athos pulled the small knife and, pressing Aramis forward, deftly cut through the rope securing his wrists. As soon as he’d accomplished the task, he tucked the knife back into the straps inside the boot, patting it as if tucking in a child for the night.

“Perhaps it would do more good in your hands,” Aramis offered, but Athos immediately shook his head.

“It will calm Porthos a great deal to know you are not completely without a means of protection.”

“For all the good it did me,” Aramis huffed. “My accuser takes few chances when dealing with me. Even I find four to one odds a bit daunting.”

“Well, now there are four of us,” Athos remarked. “A bit more even.”

Aramis smiled up at him, gratitude in his eyes. “I take it Flea was able to get Tommen to agree to allow you as my council?”

Athos shrugged, his expression grim. “For what it’s worth. I fear I have little experience arguing the law. As a Comte I was a judge, but rarely did I find the need to devise a defense.”

“But you do have experience with the laws and how they are interpreted,” Aramis stated with confidence. “And our case is just. Despite the fact Charon died by my hand, it was not murder. Surely the people will see that once the facts are presented.”

“You are forever an optimist, my friend,” Athos smiled fondly. 

“I do believe people are inherently good.”

“Despite all you’ve seen?”

“Because of it.” Aramis grunted. He attempted to leverage himself from the floor, allowing Athos to shift a shoulder under his arm and guide him to one of the chairs at the rickety table. “If you would be so kind as to bring me another bowl of that refreshing water, I suggest we get down to business and plan how we will convince the people of the Court that we were the ones acting with honor and not their king.”

Athos sighed in resignation, grabbed the half full bucket and dropped it onto the table before his friend.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Flea sat on the edge of the settee, chin in hand, watching Porthos as he stalked around her main room. The already small space was made smaller by the bulk of her former lover as he wandered from window to window, scowling at the world outside.

“You never were a patient man,” she observed after he’d pulled back the heavy curtain and peered out for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“I don’t like wasting time.”

It was the most he’d said since the younger one – d’Artagnan – had followed Felix to the room he would be held in until the trial. She had allowed Tommen to separate the Musketeers because she wanted to spend some time with Porthos, if only to explain to him why she had taken the path she had.

“Athos needs time to prepare,” she explained. “I promise you none of your friends are in danger.”

“Because you have Tommen’s word?”

“Because I have given you mine and the people of the Court respect it.”

Porthos huffed, his opinion of her belief in her people’s sense of honor beginning to wane.

“Are you so far removed from us that you can’t remember there are good people here? Caring people who only wish for a life free from pain and fear?”

Porthos took a deep breath, pushing it out between pursed lips. “I remember.”

“Good.” She shifted on the settee and patted the cushion beside her. “Please, sit.”

She waited until the Musketeer acquiesced to her invitation and settled himself next to her.

“We shouldn’t even be here,” he grumbled. “You should never have let it get this far.”

Flea sighed but could not find it in herself to disagree. “I know. I’m sorry. But I could never find the right time to tell them what really happened.”

Porthos turned toward her, leaning an elbow on the back of the settee. “Charon was a traitor,” he announced with conviction. “No matter who or what he was before, he turned his back on these people for the Cardinal’s money. They deserve to know what kind of man they hold in such high regard.”

Flea kept her eyes on her hands, folded in her lap, unable to meet Porthos’ gaze. “Even when the lie was all that held them together? All that gave them purpose?” She finally looked up, scrambling to find the words to make him see. “You must understand how it was back then, Porthos. The Cardinal’s Red Guard had been tormenting us for months, destroying our supplies, attacking any who dared venture beyond the borders of the Court. We lived in fear, not knowing where or when the next attack would come, not knowing if we would have to watch our children starve while food was plenty for those who had coin to pay for it. We were beaten, hopeless and then the attacks began… the people needed to turn to someone for hope.”

“Charon,” Porthos grunted, knowing his old friend had once been someone who would’ve made a difference.

“Charon,” Flea confirmed. “They believed in him. They rallied when they heard he had been killed.” She smiled, lost in memory. “It had been a long time since I’d seen such passion in their eyes.” Her gaze shifted to Porthos, her brows high in question. “How could I destroy that by telling them the truth?”

“Lies never help.”

Flea pushed off the cushion, frustrated, and stalked to the table, picking up a half empty cup and downing the contents. “The truth would’ve been worse.”

“And now Aramis has to pay for it?”

She moved back to the settee, dropped to her knees before him and took his hands in hers. “I know Aramis acted with honor. We can make them see that. We must make them see that.”

“Even Tommen?”

Flea’s shoulders slumped and she laid her forehead against their clasped hands. “Tommen is angry. He is not the boy you used to know.”

“What happened to him?” 

Porthos tone was soft, as if he was genuinely interested. Flea released his hands and sat back on her heels. She shrugged. “Life happened,” was the simple response. “You know Charon was not pleased when you left us to become a soldier.” She looked up at him, apology coloring her tone. “He was hurt and eventually that hurt turned to hatred. You saw that when he tried to kill you.”

Porthos nodded. “I wanted a better life.”

“I know.” Flea smiled. “You deserved it. I understood that even if Charon did not. You were not made for this life, Porthos du Vallon. You were made for something better. I think I always knew that.”

Porthos returned the smile timidly, unused to allowing his feelings to show. She remembered that about him and couldn’t help the fond grin that tilted her lips. 

“I should talk to Tommen,” Porthos said after a moment. “Maybe he’ll believe the truth if it’s laid out in front of him.”

“I’ve tried.” Flea pushed herself up and resumed her seat on the cushion beside him. “He is too angry, blinded by the memories of who he thought Charon to be. He doesn’t want to hear that his hero betrayed us – it’s far easier to believe Charon’s lies that it was you who were disloyal. That is why this trial must happen. So that everyone can see that though Charon brought us strength in death, he could never have held us together in life. They need to see that Aramis is not the enemy. That you – the Musketeers – are not our enemies. Only then can we truly begin to rebuild what we’ve lost.”

Porthos watched her, smiling at her passion, her conviction and belief in the people she felt responsible for.

“Do you really think that’s possible?” he asked.

She swallowed and squared her shoulders. She raised her head proudly and schooled her face, appearing as regal as a Queen should be. “It has to be. There’s no other choice.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

“This is… charming.” D’Artagnan muttered, glancing around the room, completely unimpressed with the accommodations.

“If Tommen had his way, you would be in chains,” Felix remarked. While he didn’t seem to be outwardly threatening, the Musketeer could sense the distaste in the young man’s tone.

“Why do you hate us?” he asked, genuinely interested in the answer. Obviously, as soldiers with the authority of the King, the people of the Court would be distrusting, especially considering how they had been persecuted under Cardinal Richelieu’s reign. But it wasn’t fear or distrust he was sensing; it was outright hatred. They had tried to help these people once, and although many of them probably didn’t know the lengths they had gone in their efforts to thwart the Cardinal’s plans, it was disarming how someone as young as Felix could already show such animosity to someone he didn’t even know.

Felix snorted a derisive laugh. “Are you joking? Your kind have made our lives a living hell.”

D’Artagnan leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “The Red Guard have made your lives complicated, not the Musketeers.”

“I see little difference.”

“Don’t let Porthos hear you say that,” the Gascon chuckled, but sobered immediately. “We’ve tried to help you. We tried to stop the Cardinal from blowing the Court to pieces. And this is how we’re repaid? One of our own abducted and held for a crime he didn’t commit?”

Felix frowned. “Charon – our King – is dead because of your friend. How can you defend him?”

“Because Charon tried to kill Porthos. He tried to stab him in the back. What else was Aramis to do?”

The young man shook his head. “No… that is not… That’s a lie. Charon was a hero.”

“I was there. I saw it. Charon was a traitor.”

Felix took a step toward the Musketeer, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a thin line. “No.” He said adamantly. “I will not believe that.”

“It’s true,” d’Artagnan continued, not moving a muscle as the young man took another step closer, hand gripping the pommel of his dagger, threatening, but not drawing it from the scabbard. “He was in league with the Cardinal. He was willing to sacrifice all of you for a handful of coin.”

Felix remained unconvinced. “No… Tommen says…”

“Tommen doesn’t want to see the truth,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “Or he knows it and has ulterior motives. How well do you know him?”

Felix seemed taken aback by the question. “Tommen has been here as long as I can remember.”

“So has Flea. And she will tell you the same thing I did.”

“Tommen says our Queen is not to be trusted when it comes to Musketeers. Her judgment is clouded by her feelings for Porthos.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “From what I understand they were in love once, when Porthos lived within the Court.”

“Porthos was one of us?”

d’Artagnan nodded. “He grew up here with Charon and Flea. Apparently Tommen omitted that part? Porthos left in search of a better life and found it with the Musketeers.” He pushed himself off the doorframe and turned to enter the dusty room. “There’s more to life than this little corner of Paris, my friend. And there’s more to a man than where he was raised.” He walked across the room and pulled a rickety chair from beneath the small square table. Wiping the accumulated dirt off the seat with a grunt of disgust, he twirled it until the back sat flush to the table and swung his leg across, straddling it. Leaning forward, he rested his chin on his hands against the chair back. 

“I was a farmer,” he continued as Felix stepped inside the room, encouraged that the young man was listening. If he could make Felix see they were not the enemy, make him regard them as men instead of soldiers, perhaps he could get him to understand that Aramis’ actions had been to protect, not to harm. “I came to Paris searching for vengeance against the man who killed my father; murdered him in cold blood. I thought that man was a Musketeer, but I was wrong. Since then, I’ve learned these men are honorable and do not kill wantonly unless there is no choice.”

“But Charon was our King,” Felix insisted with less heat than before. “You ask me to believe he was working against us.”

“It’s true,” d’Artagnan shrugged. “King Louis wanted the Court cleared for renovation and the Cardinal paid Charon to make it happen.”

“And Flea?”

“She had no part in it,” d’Artagnan quickly assured him. “She didn’t know, and when she found out, she helped us stop him.”

“Why should I believe you?” Felix’ voice still held doubt, but his tone was no longer hostile and d’Artagnan was encouraged by the change.

“Because it’s the truth. Flea intends to tell everyone at the trial.”

“If Charon betrayed us, why is Tommen so intent on holding your friend responsible?”

d’Artagnan sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “That’s a good question. Perhaps he doesn’t believe Charon could have done what he did. Perhaps, he knows and doesn’t care. Whatever the reason, Flea still believes the people of the Court are honorable and will do the right thing.” He straightened, his eyes intent on the young man before him. “My question to you is; is she right to believe that?”

Felix returned his gaze, squaring his shoulders, once again standing tall. “If what you’ve said is true, then yes. The people here are just. They would not condemn a man for protecting a friend. If they believe you.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “That, I’m afraid, is going to be the hard part.”

TBC


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Treville sighed as he was ushered into the King’s sitting room. Though uncertain of the reason for Louis’ summons, he had hoped to find the King alone so that he could control the amount of information he would be forced to relay about his men’s current predicament. The sight of the Comte de Rochefort standing at Louis’ side dashed those hopes.

“Ah, Treville,” Louis greeted, leaning back in the gilded chair beside his ornate table. “Please do come in.”

Treville nodded to the page who had admitted him and walked slowly to the center of the room, the cold eyes of the Comte making him feel as if he were on trial. He bowed stiffly, ignoring Rochefort completely as he addressed the monarch.

“It was a pleasure to receive your summons, Your Highness. How may I be of service?”

Louis exchanged a quick glance with Rochefort before clearing his throat. “It has come to my attention that there is a situation within the slum called the Court of Miracles that you and your men have been attempting to hide from me.”

Treville glowered at Rochefort, whose smug smile made it obvious who had brought it to the King’s attention. Though he had no idea how Rochefort could’ve learned of Aramis’ abduction and the subsequent ‘trial’, it was becoming quite obvious that in the short time he’d been back in Paris, the former Spanish prisoner had accumulated a spy network that rivaled Richelieu’s.

“There has been an incident,” Treville explained. “Though rest assured there is no need for you to be concerned, Sire. My men have the situation well in hand.” He had heard nothing from any of his men for some time, but he had every faith they could handle things with diplomacy and aplomb. Or, if that didn’t work, fight their way out with minimal violence. 

“Come now, Treville. I would hardly call the abduction of one of the King’s elite Musketeers a situation well in hand.”

Treville breathed out heavily through his nose, Rochefort’s condescending tone grating on his every nerve.

“While it is true one of my men was taken against his will,” he continued, sending a glare toward the Comte. “Athos has assured me the situation will be resolved quietly and without bloodshed.”

“And just how will it be resolved?” Louis asked.

“A trial.”

“There can be no trial without the King’s approval,” Rochefort argued, his voice flat, unemotional. It was obvious the Comte cared little for the men involved, he simply saw another wedge to drive between the King and the Musketeers.

“True,” Louis agreed, nodding his head sagely. “I have given no leave for any trial. Tell me, exactly what is your man being accused of?”

“Murder, Sire. A charge of which he will no doubt be proven innocent.”

Louis’ interest rose along with his brows. “Murder? And who exactly is he supposed to have murdered?”

“One of the leaders of the Court. A man named Charon. He was killed trying to stab another of my men in the back. Aramis acted to save Porthos’ life.”

Louis shook his head. “I would hardly consider that murder.”

“Nor would I,” Treville agreed. “Athos and d’Artagnan were also present at the time of the incident. They are standing witness along with a woman from the Court who holds sway with the people there. They have assured me they have things under control.”

“There is still the matter of the people of the Court overstepping their boundaries,” Rochefort interjected before the King could respond. He turned to the King. “I hardly think such behavior can go unpunished.”

Louis nodded, his lips pursed in thought. “I’m afraid Rochefort is right as usual. These people have attacked a member of my guard, which is the same as attacking the crown. Something must be done.”

“Please, Sire,” Treville tried. “The matter is delicate and, as I’ve stated, my men have things well in hand—“

“Your men have proven incompetent at best as of late, Treville.” Rochefort sneered. “Perhaps Your Highness would allow my Red Guard to handle the problem?”

Louis waved a hand. “Yes, yes. That would be fine.”

“Your Majesty,” Treville quickly interjected. “I already have four of my men in place inside the Court of Miracles. If you would just allow them time –“

“There is no more time,” Rochefort interrupted. “His Majesty has plans for the area that have been put on hold since the death of the Cardinal. Perhaps now is the time to clear the area and begin again?”

Louis eyes lit up at the prospect. “Yes, yes. We shall move ahead with our plans.” He directed his attention to Treville. “You have one hour, Treville. You will have the rest of the Musketeers use whatever force necessary to free your men. If you cannot handle it, Rochefort’s Red Guard will attack and arrest everyone who resists. I want those responsible for this inconvenience. Is that clear?”

Treville schooled his face, attempting to hide his anger as he bowed. “Of course, Your Highness. My men will deal with the situation.”

“See that they do. You have disappointed me greatly these last few weeks, Treville. See that you do not disappoint me again.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Inconveninece. Fuming from his confrontation with Rochefort and the King, Treville made his way to the gardens where he knew Clouden and Remaire were stationed watching over the Queen and the Dauphin. Since the incident with Marmion, Louis had been adamant his wife and son be protected at all times – even within the relatively safe confines of the Louvre. It had been a burden on his limited manpower, but Treville could not blame the King for his increased paranoia. The Musketeers had thwarted Marmion’s plans, but the memory of his threat lingered and if Louis needed the reassurance that his wife and son were safe, Treville would gladly give it to him.

As he approached the gardens, he could see the Queen and Constance sitting beneath a tent, the Dauphin cradled in his mother’s arms. The Dauphin’s governess sat close by, attentive yet not involved in the two women’s conversation. The rest of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting mingled together amongst the flowers and shrubs. Treville had been pleased when he’d learned of Constance Bonacieux’ appointment as the Queen’s newest consort. Anne had been quite lonely since leaving her home in Spain all those years ago; the people of France suspicious of a Spanish Queen, the ladies of the court following suit. He could tell she was much more relaxed in Constance’s presence – or perhaps it was simply motherhood lighting her face. Either way he was relieved she had found someone to trust and applauded d’Artagnan’s suggestion even if it turned out it was for more self-serving reasons.

Clouden was stationed closest to the entrance to the gardens, so he made his way to the young Musketeer. Clouden, who had been eyeing the ladies across the gardens, snapped to attention as the Captain approached.

“Captain Treville,” he said stiffly. “I did not expect to see you, sir.”

“Obviously,” Treville responded with a raise of a brow. Though Clouden was newly commissioned, he’d been an exemplary soldier. Treville did not meddle into his men’s affairs, only cautioning them to think with their heads rather than other parts of their anatomy. He’d long ago decided some of the more seasoned Musketeers – Aramis being at the top of that list – were beyond his control when it came to affairs of the heart, but Clouden was young and Treville remained hopeful he could teach the man some discretion before he followed the marksman’s example too closely. “I need you to return to the garrison and muster every available man.”

Clouden frowned. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Unfortunately,” Treville sighed. “Meet me at the east entrance to the Court of Miracles, on Rue St. Dennis. Do not attempt to go further and allow no one – especially the Red Guard – to enter either.”

Clouden nodded. “Of course, Captain. May I ask what our mission is?”

“Your mission is to keep the peace, Musketeer. Do not make any moves until you hear from either Athos or myself. Is that clear?”

“Sir!” Clouden rushed toward the stables, sword clanging against his leg.

“Captain?”

The call was not unexpected and Treville squared his shoulders before crossing the garden and ducking under the tent to bow to the Queen.

“Your Majesty.”

Anne’s eyes shifted from where Clouden had been positioned at the entrance to the gardens back to Treville, a frown of concern marring her lovely features. “Is there a problem?”

He considered lying to her, telling her everything was fine and under control, finding himself hesitant to burden her with the current situation. But he knew how much she admired her loyal Musketeers and worried for their safety. Selfishly, he believed having an ally in the Queen could go a long way in keeping Louis focused on what was important and away from Rochefort’s already too heavy influence.

“I’m afraid there has been an incident involving some of my men in the city, Your Majesty. I apologize for sending Clouden away, but I need my men mobilized quickly. I am sure as long as you remain on the grounds of the Louvre, Remaire is more than qualified to look after your safety.”

“Of course, Captain,” Anne readily agreed. “I have no doubt your Musketeer is capable. This incident, I pray it is not serious.”

Treville sighed. “I am afraid it could be. Rochefort has convinced the King to send troops, but I believe a show of force will only inflame the situation further. Some of my men are already inside the Court of Miracles handling it, I just hope they can successfully resolve the situation before the Red Guard force their way in.”

Anne and Constance exchanged a concerned glance and Treville easily guessed their fear.

“D’Artagnan is one of the men involved, but as far as I know, neither he, Porthos nor Athos is in any danger.”

“And Aramis?” Anne asked, a strange note of emotion coloring her tone. She smiled quickly at Treville’s raised brow. “We hardly ever hear of the four of them separated.”

Treville nodded, accepting the answer. “Aramis was taken for reasons too complicated to explain just now. But I assure you, Athos and the others have things well in hand. With luck, they should all return fine and fit by sunset. If you will excuse me ladies.” He bowed to Constance and then the Queen. 

“Of course, Captain,” Anne dismissed him. “Please bring us good news.”

“I will, Your Majesty.” Treville turned and marched from the gardens, praying he had not just lied to the Queen of France.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos studied his friend as he drank from the small bowl. Aramis’ color had returned to normal and he no longer seemed to struggle for breath, but he was still weak, the heat and lack of air taking its toll.

“So what’s the plan?” the marksman asked after taking another long drink from the bowl. He pushed his hair back from his face, running his wet fingers through the strands before leaning his head back against the wall. He was disheveled and obviously weary but once again aware, his eyes clear, his mind focused.

Athos was seated on the mattress next to him, finding it more comfortable – and safe – than the rickety chairs near the table, his shoulder brushing his friend’s. He’d insisted the door remain open to disperse the stifling heat inside the small shack and Flea’s man had agreed, forcing the other guards to acquiesce to the demand. While it was still uncomfortably warm inside the walls, it was no longer oppressive but Athos, due to their proximity, could still feel the heat radiating from Aramis’ body.

“The plan is to get you out of here,” Athos responded. His eyes flickered to the open door, his voice low, hushed.

Aramis snorted a laugh. “And just how do you plan to do that? We seem to be at a distinct disadvantage.”

“You do have a knife.” Athos reminded him.

“A very small one,” Aramis countered.

“We’ve worked with less.”

Aramis nodded in agreement. “Then our victory is certain.”

Despite their words, neither man made a move from the thin mattress.

“Porthos believes Flea will be able to convince the people of your innocence.”

Aramis pursed his lips. “I believe she will try. But if Tommen is any indication of how the people of the Court truly feel –“

“She says he is not.”

Aramis sighed and closed his eyes, letting his head once again rest against the rough wood of the wall behind them. “I pray she is right.” He rolled his head to the side and glanced at Athos. “So we tell the truth and hope it’s enough?”

Athos nodded. “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

“John 8:32,” Aramis smiled in approval. “Are things so dire for you to quote Bible verse to me?”

“I thought you may find it comforting,” Athos shrugged.

“As much as the Good Book reassures me in times of need, I think, in this instance, I would prefer an actual plan.”

“We will play their game,” Athos finally relented. “We will tell the truth, Porthos and d’Artagnan as well as Flea standing witness to the events of Charon’s demise. If we cannot convince the people you acted with honor in defense of a brother, Treville has the entire regiment awaiting word.”

“Any attack will cost many innocent lives.”

Athos leaned his head back, his lips a thin line of resolve. “Perhaps, but we will not allow them to condemn you for a crime you did not commit. The King cannot allow the people of Paris to take the law into their own hands no matter how just they believe their cause.”

Aramis sighed in agreement. “I hope Porthos knows how sorry I am about all of this. Though I will never regret what I was forced to do, I wish with all my heart it had never been necessary at all.”

Athos laid his hand on Aramis’ thigh and squeezed in understanding. “Porthos lays no blame on your shoulders, my friend. None of us do. Porthos made his choice long ago. He is a Musketeer. He is one of us. That will never change.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Porthos paced the confines of Flea’s sitting room, anxious to get things over and done. He had no idea how Athos and Aramis fared, his concern for his brothers in this venomous situation most keen. He knew d’Artagnan was still nearby, although he had given Flea his word he would not try to seek out the younger Musketeer until she could gather the people needed for the trial. Still, the waiting was beginning to eat at his nerves and he was not sure how much longer his could remain calm before demanding to see his friends – all of them – to make sure they all remained alive and whole.

Shouts and jeers from the street began to filter through the narrow walls and Porthos hurried to a window, peering out from behind a draped curtain. A crowd was gathering in the street below, the people huddling together in groups, gesturing toward the far end of the road out of his line of sight. He turned as Flea entered the room, rushing over to join him at the window.

“What’s going on?” he asked, noting the flush of anger on her face.

“Tommen,” she answered simply. She nodded her head toward the street and Porthos once more turned to the scene outside.

Tommen and his men were marching between the parting crowd, pushing a bound and gagged captive across the uneven pavers.

“That’s Treville,” the Musketeer growled, his hands clenching into fists at his side. He felt the heat of pure hatred flush through his body, his eyes narrowing at the way Tommen paraded the Captain before the people of the Court. “He’s gone too far.”

Without waiting for a response, he stormed from the room and down the hall, rushing out onto the street just as Tommen approached with his prisoner.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’,” Porthos snarled. He grasped Treville’s arm and pulled the Captain behind him towards Flea who already had a dagger out to cut the bindings. He stepped up to Tommen to block his advance. “That is the Captain of the Musketeers, you fool. Are you trying to start a war?”

Tommen refused to back down, standing toe-to-toe with Porthos. “He came of his own accord asking to speak with you.” Tommen’s smile was predatory. “We were simply escorting him for his own safety. Musketeers are hardly safe within the confines of the Court.”

“Bound and gagged?” Porthos shouted. He pointed back toward the captain who was now free, the rope binding his wrists cut, the gag pulled down around his neck. “This man deserves respect. If you’re looking for a fight, Tommen, you just found one.”

“Porthos,” Treville’s voice was sharp but calm. “Stand down. No harm was done.”

Tommen laughed. “See? No harm done.”

The big Musketeer breathed through his nose, not giving an inch, his fiery gaze boring into Tommen’s.

“Porthos,” Flea’s hand grasped at his bicep. “Please. This is not the way.”

Tommen’s snorted a laugh. “Seems like you have more than one person tugging on your leash.”

Porthos growled again before stepping back and turning to confront the Captain. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to let us handle this.”

“I was,” Treville nodded. He rubbed his wrist, his eyes roaming the hostile crowd surrounding them. “I can see you have things well in hand.”

Porthos sighed and crossed his arms over his broad chest defensively. “We do… in a way.”

“Captain Treville,” Flea interrupted. “Porthos speaks highly of you. I’m sorry we must meet under such… tense circumstances.” She held out her hand, which the Captain took gallantly.

“You must be Flea,” he responded with a terse smile. “Porthos has also spoken highly of you. In fact all of my men have told me you are to be trusted.” He looked around again, a raised brow announcing his doubt. “Though I am having difficulty believing things are in order.”

“I assure you, your men have not been harmed and the situation will be resolved.”

He nodded, taking her at her word before returning his attention to Porthos. “There has been a development.”

“I didn’t think you risked your neck just to check our progress,” Porthos countered.

Treville frowned at the insubordination but let it go.

“The King has ordered the Red Guard to step in.”

Porthos sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “How did he even – don’t tell me. Rochefort.”

The Captain nodded. “Somehow Rochefort must’ve gotten wind of what was happening and informed the King. I was called to the palace this morning and ordered to deal with the situation. I was able to get His Majesty to give me a little time before he sends the Red Guard in to attack.”

“That’ll be a bloodshed,” Porthos warned. “These people aren’t just goin’ to sit here and let soldiers take over. What does the King think will happen?”

“I doubt he cares,” Treville said quietly, his eyes still roaming over the restless crowd. “But we must deal with this before they arrive. I have the Musketeers at the entrance to the Court with orders to keep them at bay for as long as possible, but we need to end this now.”

“The only way to end this is for the Musketeer who murdered Charon to pay with his life!” Tommen had been standing close enough to overhear most of their conversation. He turned to the crowd and raised voice. “This man has brought soldiers down upon us! I told you they are not to be trusted! We have no choice but to fight for what is ours!”

“That’s not true!” Flea pushed her way to the front. Next to Tommen she looked small and frail, but her shoulders were squared and she stood with her fists on her hips, her expression one of raw determination. “The Musketeers are here to protect us.” She pointed behind her to Captain Treville. “This man risked his life to warn us so that we could come to a peaceful solution. Are we so afraid that we would condemn a man for doing what is right?”

Porthos saw some of the people nodding in agreement with Flea’s words. The crowd no longer seemed hostile, but he was not about to trust that their allegiance wouldn’t swing the other way just as quickly.

“Lies!” Tommen countered. “There is only one way this can end!” He pushed his way through the crowd, quickly disappearing from sight. 

Flea watched him go for a moment before turning to her own men and motioning for them to follow. She held a hand against Porthos’ chest, keeping him from charging off after them.

“He’s going after Aramis.” Porthos was certain Tommen would try to kill his friend despite their agreement and he was not about to just sit back and wait for it to happen.

“My men will not allow anything to happen to him,” Flea assured him. She stepped closer, her eyes locked on his, beseeching. “Please. There is enough unrest. You following can only make things worse.”

“She’s right,” Treville agreed reluctantly. “Athos and Aramis can handle Tommen. Right now we need to come up with a plan to stop the Red Guard before they move.” He looked around. “Where’s d’Artagnan? We’ll need to be ready when they return.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

d’Artagnan sat up, perched on the edge of the chair as the din from outside the building increased. He heard voices shouting, a collective unrest from what seemed like an increasing crowd. The voices were muffled, hiding the nature of the conflict from him, but considering their precarious circumstances, no disturbance within the confines of the Court could bode well for them. There were no windows in the room, but Felix still stood guard outside the partially open door, and it was his countenance that gave the young Musketeer cause for concern.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked, rising to his feet and striding to the door. 

Felix shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know.” His gaze shifted from the hallway back to the man in his charge. “Give me your word you will remain in this room and I will find out.”

D’Artagnan nodded without hesitation; the need to know whether his friends were in danger exceeding his desire for freedom.

Felix hurried away leaving d’Artagnan alone to consider what could possibly have happened to excite the people of the Court into such a frenzy. He didn’t have long to contemplate before Felix returned in a rush.

“Come,” he ordered. “We must return to Flea’s quarters.”

D’Artagnan dashed out the door and followed the younger man. “Why? What’s going on?”

Felix turned his head as they hurried down the hall. “It seems the King has sent soldiers. Your Captain has been captured.”

“Treville?” d’Artagnan asked, stunned. The Captain had agreed to give them time to solve this on their own. But if the King had somehow gotten wind of what was happening… it was no wonder the people were in such a state. If Treville had been ordered to attack, there would be little he could do to keep his word. D’Artagnan only hoped that Treville’s arrival meant the Captain had a plan to get them all out safely before the show of force could turn Flea’s plan to dust.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Shouting outside the shack brought both Musketeers to their feet just as the partially closed door was wrenched fully open and Tommen stormed inside the small space. Athos stepped in front of Aramis, only to be pushed aside roughly by the irate man as he grabbed for the marksman and yanked him forward.

“What are you doing?” Athos shouted in anger. The Musketeer rarely let his emotions take control of him, but in this instance he was unable to contain his fury. “Unhand him at once!”

“You don’t make the rules here, Musketeer.” Tommen sneered as he forcefully dragged Aramis out the door. The marksman stumbled as he crossed the threshold, nearly falling as he was pushed beyond his current capabilities. Tommen hauled him a few steps from the shack before forcing him to his knees in the dirt.

Athos rushed out behind them, taking up position in front of his friend once again. “You have no right to treat him this way. Flea has promised a fair trial.” 

Tommen laughed. “There is no need for a trial. I know he is guilty.” He waved a hand toward the other men surrounding them. “We all know he is guilty. Flea has had her say. She told us to trust you, yet there are soldiers massing outside the Court, ready to lay siege.”

Athos stared back in surprise. Treville had led the regiment here? Even after assuring them he would allow them to handle things?

“We have your Captain,” Tommen continued, his eyes alight with madness. “He will die along with the rest of you.”

“Your grievance is with me,” Aramis struggled to his feet. “Let my friends and Treville go and you can do what you want.”

Athos rolled his eyes at his friend’s penchant for self-sacrifice. “If you kill a Musketeer, the King will lay waste to everything inside this realm. They will kill every last man, woman and child and it will all be on your head. Is that the price you are willing to pay for your vengeance against a man who saved you from destruction?”

“Your words will not save you,” Tommen stepped forward, pressing into Athos’ space. “This dog has already confessed to his crime. I will waste no more time on this. It is time for him to die. If you attempt to stop me, I will have no problem taking your life as well.”

Athos did not flinch, giving no ground to the bigger man. “It will be the last thing you ever do.”

“Tommen,” one of the guards, Flea’s man, approached. He placed a hand on the big man’s arm and forced him to take a step back. “Flea has given these men her word.”

Tommen shrugged off the hand, holding Athos steady gaze. “Flea has no say in this.”

“I cannot allow you to –“

Tommen turned and grabbed the guard by the neck, cutting off his breath as well as his words. “Who is goin’ to stop me?” he challenged.

Athos felt Aramis shift behind him. A moment later, the cool grip of a knife was pressed into his hand. As Tommen released the guard, Athos surged forward, thrusting out with the blade. Despite his size and lack of training, Tommen was unexpectedly quick. Seeing the attack coming, he was able to lean back, the knife merely glancing across his ribs.

Tommen pressed a hand to his side and quickly pulled it back, staring at the blood coating his fingers. For a moment no one moved. Then Tommen growled and lunged forward. Athos feinted with the knife, yelling for Aramis to run. The sounds of a scuffle behind him made it obvious the marksman had not heeded the order. Athos dodged Tommen’s advance and turned to defend his wounded friend when more men began to pour in from the adjoining street. 

The guard whom Tommen had choked was on his feet, charging toward Tommen, knocking the unsuspecting man from his feet. 

“Go!” he called to Athos. “Get back to Flea.”

Athos did not argue. He scurried forward just in time to grab hold of a man attempting to throw a punch to Aramis’ back while the marksman was engaged with another of Tommen’s men. Swinging the man around, Athos landed a punch to his nose, shattering the bone just as Aramis managed to send a knee into his own opponent’s gut. The man doubled over and Aramis relieved him of his sword, tossing it to Athos as he leaned over and plucked another from the dirt.

“I think it’s time for us to take our leave,” Aramis grinned over the sounds of fighting. The new men were obviously Flea’s as they began to attack the men who had accompanied Tommen. “Any idea which way to go?”

Athos shrugged and grabbed his friend by the arm, tugging him in the direction the other men had come from. “Right now, I’d say any direction is the right one. Let’s go!”

TBC


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Flea held up a hand, waiting for the crowd to quiet. The assembled men and women of the Court of Miracles still murmured in confusion, but once she knew she had their attention, Flea steeled herself to finally tell them the truth. She had no idea how they would react; she could only hope that their trust in her was not too badly shaken.

“If you need to be angry, then I should be the target of your anger,” she began. “It was I who failed to tell you the truth of Charon’s treachery.” She glanced around at the people she believed in. They may not understand her reasons for deceiving them all this time but, hopefully, they would accept her reasons for the charade. She felt Porthos step up behind her, grateful for the Musketeer’s support as she continued. “There was a time that I loved Charon as you all did. He led us with compassion and great insight. But he lost track of what we were trying to build here. He allowed himself to be consumed by the call of gold, eager to push aside everything he held sacred for it.

“Most of you remember the horrors of the explosions that rocked the Court all those months ago. Those who suffered because of the Cardinal’s plans.” She motioned toward Porthos and Treville. “These Musketeers are the reason those plans never came to fruition. I didn’t want to believe them at the time either, but they risked their lives to save us, to expose and stop Charon from aiding the Cardinal. Charon was our leader, but he betrayed us. For nothing more than money.”

The rumble grew louder at her confession. And she was forced to raise her voice to be heard above the din.

“I alone decided to hide the truth from you,” she admitted, guilt coloring her voice. “I believed it would unite us; give us strength to rise against the Cardinal and his plans to destroy our homes and drive us out. And it worked!” Flea smiled, bitterly. “We came together and we prevailed! We are still here and he is not.”

“You should’ve told us the truth!” a woman’s voice rang out. “How do we know you’re not lying to us now?”

Flea stepped forward, her hands held out beseechingly. She knew she had betrayed their trust – perhaps not as gravely as Charon, but it was still a betrayal. These were good people. They deserved better from their leaders. “I can give you no proof other than my word. What I did, I did for the sake of our survival. I believed using Charon’s death, his memory, as a means to unite us was the best way to move forward. Perhaps I was wrong, but at the time, it was all I could think to do. I could see no other choice.”

“But the Musketeer still killed Charon,” a man spoke up. “That part is true, is it not? Are we expected to simply dismiss that?”

“It’s true,” Porthos stepped forward, his deep voice quieting the crowd instantly. “But if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here today. Some of you remember me; I grew up here. Charon was my friend, my family. Or so I thought. Despite our differences, I never believed he would do me harm, but I was wrong. He tried to stab me in the back. Aramis did what he had to do to stop him. He killed Charon to save me. It wasn’t murder.”

“Listen to him! They are telling the truth.” 

Flea turned as the new voice rang out from behind, her eyes wide as Felix stepped into the street followed by the young Musketeer, d’Artagnan. He hurried forward, nodding to her before turning to address the crowd. “You all know me. I have followed Tommen, believing in his vengeance, believing it was warranted.” He turned and glanced at d’Artagnan. “I now think we were wrong. If what Flea and these men say is true, Charon was not the man we believed him to be. These Musketeers have come here willingly to tell us what happened. They say their friend, Aramis, acted with honor to defend the life of another. I have spent some time with them, listening, weighing their words. I have no reason to trust them, but I do believe them. They claim Aramis had no choice – it was either Charon or Porthos. Can we condemn a man for taking a life if it was to spare another?”

Flea laid a hand on his arm, smiling up at him proudly. Felix was young and well liked within the Court. His mother had been a friend and Flea had felt dismay when he had sided with Tommen against her. But perhaps she had given up on him too soon, perhaps he wasn’t as easily swayed by Tommen’s promise of revenge as she’d thought. If he could find his way back to the truth, perhaps they all could.

“I will not apologize for doing what I felt necessary to save us,” she addressed the crowd with a new resolve, her eyes skimming the faces of her people. “But I will ask your forgiveness for misleading you. I never wanted any of this. I hoped our victory over the Cardinal would be enough to allow Charon’s memory to remain untarnished. But we cannot allow Tommen or anyone else to condemn the Musketeer Aramis because of a lie. We must end this now, before things move beyond our control.”

This time, the whispers from the crowd were more positive, heads nodding in agreement. Flea turned to Felix and the two exchanged a smile of relief. They still had the threat of the Red Guard hanging over them, but if the people could trust Porthos and the Musketeers to help them, she had faith they could survive the crisis once again.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos skidded around a corner of a narrow alley, dragging Aramis behind him, pressing him back against the stone wall. Despite the heat of the day, the marksman wasn’t sweating, but his face was flushed and his breaths came in staccato gasps. The meager water they had been allowed would not have been enough for Aramis to fully recover from the hours spent in the sweatbox of a shack he had been held in, and Athos knew they had to find someplace safe and cool to rest or his friend would succumb to his body’s withering resources.

Unfortunately, Athos had absolutely no idea where they were at the moment.

They’d escaped from the altercation between Tommen’s men and what surely had to be Flea’s loyal guard, but the Court was a series of streets and narrow alleys that interconnected in a haphazard pattern and he’d soon become lost, leading Aramis far from Tommen’s reach his top priority. If they continued in one direction, they would eventually find their way out of the Court of Miracles, but he had no idea how many people were on Tommen’s side in this and considering Aramis’ current condition, had little desire to chance alerting the crazed man to their location.

He leaned back against the wall and glanced down at his friend. Aramis was stooped forward, his hands locked just above his knees, his back heaving as he tried to draw breath.

“Aramis?”

“I’m fine,” the marksman gasped. He waved a hand in Athos’ general direction. “Just… need a moment… to get my breath… back.”

Athos nodded and leaned his head back against the warm brick. “You need water.”

Aramis forced himself up and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I wouldn’t say no… to a drink.” He managed a grin. “Or ten.”

Athos studied his friend’s flushed face. “You aren’t sweating.”

Aramis merely shrugged at the observation. “Not much to sweat with.” He ran a tongue over dry lips and managed a deep breath through his nose. “Once we get back… to Porthos and d’Artagnan, I’m sure Flea will provide us with her best wine.”

“If only we knew in which direction our salvation lay.”

Aramis rolled his head against the stone behind them and offered a quick grin. “I trust your judgment, mon ami.”

“Your faith is appreciated, but I’m afraid misplaced in this instance.”

“Like you said earlier,” Aramis shrugged as he shifted his head back and closed his eyes. “Any direction away from our friend Tommen is the correct one.”

Shouts echoed off the walls and both Musketeers tensed. As the thrum of voices grew closer, they were discouraged to recognize Tommen’s leading the charge. Apparently, Flea’s men had not prevailed. Athos laid a hand on his friend’s arm, squeezing gently. 

“I will not allow him to take you again,” he promised. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would manage to prevent it, but he would die before he would allow Aramis to be harmed further.

“I fear you will not be able to stop him,” Aramis responded, a disturbing hint of finality in his voice. He held up the stolen sword. “At least we are armed this time, because I highly doubt we will be able to take him by surprise again.”

As much as Athos wanted to dispute the statement, he knew he could not. It had taken everything they had to thwart Tommen at the shack, the timely arrival of Flea’s men allowing them the opportunity to escape. Despite their superior skills, they were simply too heavily outnumbered. Without such an intervention, there would be little they could do to hold Tommen and his men at bay a second time. 

It took only moments for the surly crowd to find them. Athos raised his sword, but a small shake of Aramis’ head encouraged him to lower the weapon. The marksman followed suit, dropping the sword on the ground as Tommen’s men advanced warily. There was little chance of defeating them, though Athos couldn’t help but bristle at the thought of surrender. Two men grabbed Aramis and hauled him back out into the street as Athos fought the two who reached for him, struggling to stay as close to his friend as possible.

“Athos!” Aramis’ voice was soft but held a strength Athos found familiar and insistent, and the swordsman stilled to see his friend standing straight and tall despite his fatigue. The marksman turned back to Tommen, meeting the bigger man’s eyes with resolve. “Athos is not to be harmed. It is me you want. If you give me your word he will be set free, I will not resist.”

Aramis’ offer did not come as a surprise, though his penchant for self-sacrifice was infuriating all the same. Athos vowed to have a lengthy discussion with him about it once they were free of the immediate threat. Renewing his struggles, Athos managed to throw one of the men who held him to the ground but two more took his place, one managing to wind an arm around the Musketeer’s throat. Unable to draw breath, Athos had no choice but to cease movement as the arm squeezed tight.

Tommen studied them both for a long moment before nodding. “Agreed,” he grinned, victorious. He motioned for Athos to be released.

The swordsman pulled in a great, rasping breath as the pressure on his neck lifted. He bent over, coughing harshly as the warm, moist air dragged through his bruised throat. Pushing himself up, he glared at Tommen before turning his gaze to Aramis who was staring back with concern. He nodded quickly, scowling to let his friend know he was all right – and that he was not pleased with the bargain he had struck.

“Take them back to our Queen,” Tommen instructed. “I will have her see justice served.”

Athos watched as the two men dragged Aramis forward, allowing another to take his arm and force him to move with the rest of the men. At least they would be heading in the right direction. He only prayed that Porthos and Flea had enough support to keep the situation from escalating into something they would all regret.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Seeing that Flea and the young man, Felix, had things well in hand for the moment, Porthos retreated back to where Treville was standing with d’Artagnan. He quickly looked the young Musketeer up and down, finding him seemingly unharmed.

“You all right?”

D’Artagnan nodded, his eyes scanning Porthos in the same way. “Fine. Someone want to explain what’s going on?” The petulance in the Gascon’s voice made both of the older men grin despite the dire circumstances.

“It seems the King has taken an interest in the proceedings here in the Court of Miracles,” Treville quickly explained. “I came to warn you before the Red Guard could make a nuisance of themselves.”

“But how did the King even know –“ d’Artagnan cut himself off abruptly, waving a hand before either of the other two could respond. “Don’t tell me. Rochefort.”

“It would seem,” Treville confirmed. 

“Then we have to find Athos and Aramis and get this settled.”

Porthos sighed and shook his head. “Flea still asks us to give ‘er a chance to settle it all peacefully.” Although he was eager to find Aramis and Athos and make sure they remained unharmed, he wanted to give Flea the benefit of the doubt. She had assured him she could reason with her people and despite the escalation of the situation due to the King’s untimely interference, he truly believed she deliver on her promise. He glanced back at his former lover as she continued speaking to the people of the court. There were many more who were nodding, listening, and he hoped that meant she was swaying the majority to her favor.

“We may not have that luxury.” D’Artagnan stood straighter and nodded his head toward the far end of the crowded street.

Porthos turned to see Tommen leading a contingent of men toward them, Aramis and Athos being forcibly shoved along behind him. Though they were both alive and moving of their own volition, he could tell from Aramis’ sluggish, graceless stumble that he was injured. The scowl on Athos face coupled with the way his eyes remained focused on the back of the marksman’s head did nothing to alleviate that concern. Growling deep in his throat at the treatment of his friends, Porthos didn’t realize he’d moved until he felt Treville’s hand on his arm.

“Wait.”

Years of conditioning had taught him to trust Treville’s orders despite his own instincts to act. His eyes narrowed as Tommen made his way through the crowd, stopping as soon as he had Flea’s attention. The assembly made room for them, circling around to close in behind them as the men crowded into the square. Tommen motioned with his hand and one of his men shoved Aramis forward. Closer up, it was obvious the marksman had not been treated kindly by his captors. There were only a few outward signs of abuse, but his face was flushed, his fatigue apparent and his rounded shoulders and subdued demeanor spoke volumes.

“Tommen,” Flea approached him, her tone remaining even and professional. “I’m glad you’re here. We have little time to waste. We must get this trial underway.”

“There will be no trial,” Tommen spat. He grabbed hold of the hair on the back of Aramis’ head and yanked the Musketeer close to him. “This ends the only way it was ever going to end. This Musketeer dog will pay for his crime!” His voice rose as he made the announcement, playing it up for the gathered throng.

“That is not what we agreed upon,” Flea argued. “We gave these men our word –“

“You gave them your word. I gave them nothing.” 

Tommen pulled a familiar pistol from the back of his belt and Porthos bristled as he recognized the fine scrollwork on the metal stock. He knew both Flea and Treville were trying to keep the situation from escalating, but he would not allow Tommen to threaten Aramis with his own weapon. He shook off Treville’s hold and took a step forward, only to have Tommen level the pistol at him. Instinctively, he grabbed Flea’s arm, pulling her behind him for protection.

“You’re making a very big mistake,” the big Musketeer warned. He could feel the fire in his belly burning hot but attempted to keep it in check. He still hoped they could resolve things without bloodshed. He glanced behind Tommen at Athos who stood with the rest of Tommen’s men, held fast. A minute shake of the shaggy head told Porthos everything he needed to know and he braced himself for the coming confrontation.

“The only mistake is that we didn’t deal with this sooner,” Tommen responded. “He looked past Porthos to Flea. “Her lies will not go unpunished either.”

“Tommen, please –“

Porthos held up a hand and Flea broke off her plea and stepped back, allowing him to handle the threat before them.

“The only lies she told were to protect Charon’s memory for the people who believed in him. To give them a common ground to fight against the Cardinal’s plans.” He shifted, raising his voice to address all the people surrounding them. “You now know what Charon did. How he betrayed everything you’ve tried to build.”

“What Charon did or didn’t do can’t be proven,” Tommen interjected. “And it’s not the point.” He shook the hand still holding Aramis tight by the back of his head and addressed the crowd as well. “This is what we are here to decide,” he shouted. “How best to punish this murderer.”

“The Musketeer murdered no one,” Felix stepped up, standing shoulder to shoulder with Porthos. “I have spoken with the witness, d’Artagnan. His account is the same as Flea’s; the same as Porthos’. Charon tried to kill a friend and Aramis stopped him the only way he could. If that is truly what happened, he is no more guilty of murder than any of us.”

The pistol dropped a bit as Tommen looked toward Felix with disbelief. “You’re with them now? Can’t you see them for what they are?” He waved the gun at the others. “They would do anything to save their friend. “ He placed the barrel of the weapon against Aramis neck, grinning maniacally as Porthos tensed. “See? He’s ready to attack despite all these people. He doesn’t care about them, he only cares about his friend.” He shook Aramis again to punctuate his words.

Porthos took a deep breath and held up a hand, supplicant. “You’re right. I would do anything to save Aramis. Just as he would do anything to save me. That is the truth of what happened. Charon planted the bombs to destroy the court at the Cardinal’s bidding. When we stopped him, I made the mistake of turning my back to him believing he was still the man – the brother – I had grown up with. I was wrong. He tried to stab me in the back and Aramis killed him.” He looked around, catching the eyes of a few of the men in the crowd. “I mourned the man he used to be the same as all of you. But I never blamed Aramis for his actions. Would any of you have done differently if it was someone you cared for?” He returned his gaze to Tommen. “Would you have hesitated if it was Charon’s life in jeopardy?”

The murmur of the crowd grew louder as they began to nod, obviously swayed by the Musketeer’s words.

“This must end, Tommen,” Flea stepped from behind Porthos, standing beside the big Musketeer. Her hand reached out, silently begging him to relinquish the pistol. “You have done nothing that can’t be forgiven as yet.”

Tommen’s shook his head slowly, his eyes taking on the gleam of a caged animal. “No. No. Lies. All lies. He must pay!”

Flea darted forward only to be stopped suddenly by Porthos’ hand on her arm. “Put the pistol down, Tommen.”

“No!” 

Tommen’s aim shifted again, this time toward the woman trying to reason with him. Porthos’ eyes went wide as he threw himself to the side and wrapped his arms around Flea just as the sound of the discharge echoed in the street. Aramis moved suddenly, shoving back at Tommen as he simultaneously flung his arm out to spoil his aim. Porthos felt the sting of the bullet’s impact just before he fell, Flea’s scream in harmony with Aramis’ ringing through his head as reality faded to darkness.

TBC


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

“No!” 

Aramis’ scream mixed with the explosion from the pistol fire, his heart freezing in his chest as he watched Porthos fall. He’d given Tommen his word he would not resist, allowing the man to taunt his friends, praying and trusting that they would be able to diffuse the situation before anyone was hurt. It was only when he felt the hand still twisted in his hair tense that he knew he could wait no longer.

Swinging out in desperation, he’d managed to push Tommen’s arm up, spoiling his aim, only to watch horrified as Porthos wrapped himself protectively around Flea’s smaller frame, stepping directly into the shot.

He was vaguely aware of Flea screaming Porthos’ name before the rage burned bright enough to overshadow everything. He drove his elbow into Tommen’s gut, turning as the bigger man doubled over. Catching his arm, Aramis pried the pistol from Tommen’s grip and pivoted in a full circle, ignoring the heat of the barrel in his grip as he swung the weapon like a club at his captor’s head. 

Tommen dropped like a rock and Aramis followed him down. Despite his earlier weakness, his anger and grief leant him strength and he began to pummel Tommen’s face, uncaring of the damage he was inflicting on either of them.

Watching Porthos fall had broken something inside, and, his mind awash with emotion and adrenaline, Aramis continued his onslaught. He’d been able to save his friend from Charon’s blade before, but this time he’d failed. He’d hesitated too long, allowing his weakness to take hold and now Porthos had paid the price.

Hands grabbed at him and he struggled against the hold, shoving them off, striking Tommen again. His eyes filled with burning tears, his breath hitched in his throat. He ignored the blood and weakening grunts of protest flying from Tommen’s mouth as his head rocked to and fro beneath the savage assault.

“Aramis, stop!”

He recognized Athos’ voice, the familiar hands tugging at him, but his fists continued to move of their own volition. He couldn’t stop to think, to consider…. It was all too much. This man deserved to be punished. He had forced their hand. Aramis would’ve gladly allowed himself to be killed if … His arms grew tired, but the rage burned brightly. Tommen had caused all of this. And now Porthos…

“Aramis!” 

Aramis twisted, pushing Athos hands from his arms again.

“No!” He cried, not bothering to hide the devastation that had begun to lodge itself into his very core. “He killed Porthos! I can’t –“

“Porthos is alive!” Athos voice filtered through, stopping Aramis cold. He turned toward his friend, eyes wide with hope. Athos shook him, forcefully turning him away from Tommen’s inert form. “Look! See! He’s alive, Aramis.”

Ignorant of the blood staining his hands, Aramis wiped at the tears blinding him, leaving streaks of red across his cheeks. At Athos’ continued urging, he pushed himself away from Tommen and crawled the short distance to where Flea sat, Porthos’ head cradled in her lap. The big Musketeer turned toward him, eyes open – albeit a bit dazed – conveying a familiar warmth that melted the fire burning in Aramis’ gut.

“Porthos?”

The answering smile was the best gift he had ever received.

“Porthos! You’re alive!” His hands ghosted above the narrow furrow across his friend’s brow. It was seeping blood, but didn’t look deep. He doubted it would even need stitching, though he could see the small lines of pain the wound caused crinkling at the edges of Porthos’ eyes.

“Thanks to you,” Porthos grinned.

Aramis shook his head. “I acted too late. I tried to shift his aim, throw off the shot, but I was too late. I’m sorry, I –“ He knew he was babbling – a condition unbecoming a seasoned soldier such as himself – but he couldn’t help it. Relief coalesced with his guilt and shame for having allowed Tommen to act made his head spin. He shook it to clear his thoughts and was forced to squeeze his eyes tightly as the world tilted precariously.

“Aramis?”

This time Porthos’ voice took on a tinge of concern and he attempted to open his eyes to reassure his friend.

“I’m fine –“ He attempted to shift, but his strength abandoned him and he fell sideways, slumping against Athos’ sturdy form.

“You are far from fine,” the swordsman observed. “Either of you. But I believe you will both live to see another day.”

“Aramis?”

Aramis glanced up with a grateful smile before turning his attention to Porthos. “He is right, mon ami. With a bit of rest and a lot of water I will be as good as new.” He tipped his chin toward the gash on his friend’s forehead. “You, on the other hand, may need a bit more attention.”

Porthos raised a hand to his head, only to have it slapped away by Flea. She raised her brows, smiling as his retort died on his lips.

“I assure you he will get the proper attention,” she promised, her eyes holding Aramis’. “You have my word.”

Aramis let Athos support more of his weight as he nodded, returning her smile with a weary one of his own. “That’s good enough for me.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

An hour later saw them all congregated once again in Flea’s apartments, Porthos and Aramis both lounging on the settee as Treville and d’Artagnan prepared to go confront the Red Guard being held at bay by the regiment near the entrance to the Court. 

“What do I tell the King about this trial of yours?” Treville inquired of the Court’s Queen.

Flea, who was finishing the bandaging on Porthos’ wound, glanced at Aramis before responding. “I believe the trial is no longer necessary. While I may never convince Tommen that Charon betrayed us, the rest of the people now know the truth. And while Aramis’ reaction to Tommen’s shot was… dramatic… it was understandable and convincing. His grief was quite obvious considering the circumstances. From what I could see, no one would dare to doubt his sincerity when it came to the wellbeing of his brothers.”

Aramis, who was slouched back in his seat, didn’t bother to open his eyes, but had the grace to blush at her description.

Athos raised a brow. “Dramatic is putting it mildly.”

“He was rather spectacular, wasn’t he?” Porthos quipped.

“I was not myself,” the marksman countered, cracking an eyelid. “But I’m glad my deep, profound emotional outburst served a more auspicious purpose than simply your amusement.”

Porthos chuckled wearily. “I did find it entertainin’.” 

“Very moving,” d’Artagnan agreed with a grin. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” 

Aramis smiled, reassuring. “Rest assured, I would only take such aggression toward my enemies. Never my brothers.”

“Good to know.”

“I am glad that is settled,” Treville interjected, “But there is still the matter of restitution to the King. Your man did abduct one of His Majesty’s Musketeers. It will be seen as an affront to the Crown. I doubt I will be able to make it anything less.”

Flea nodded sagely as the Musketeers sobered, exchanging knowing glances in acceptance of their Captain’s words.

“I understand, Captain,” Flea stepped from around the settee, standing formally before Treville. “What do you suggest?”

Treville glanced at Porthos before returning his attention to the Queen of the Court. “If I could take Tommen into custody, I believe I can convince the King he acted on his own when he took Aramis and that neither you nor your people condoned his actions. If he is held accountable, I can see no need for further admonishment against your people. “

Flea took a moment to consider his words before nodded reluctantly. “I understand your position, Captain. Someone must be held accountable. As much as I regret it, I will not object to you taking Tommen to answer for his crimes. My people must see that if we want to be recognized by the King as a peaceful society, we must be held responsible for our actions like everyone else. We are not above the law.”

Treville nodded, pleased with the arrangement. “I believe that will suffice. I will do what I can to see he is treated fairly and his punishment is just.”

“I know you will,” Flea responded. “His injuries are being cared for under guard. I will have him brought to you as soon as he is able.” 

With a nod to the other men in the room, she left to secure their prisoner.

“I doubt he’ll go quietly,” Porthos announced.

“He won’t have much of a choice,” Athos intoned. “I believe Aramis broke his jaw.”

“Recompense for my head,” Aramis responded with little regret. “And Porthos’.”

“Hopefully it will be enough to keep the King from ordering the Red Guard to raze the Court,” Treville sighed. “With Rochefort whispering in his ear, I’m not sure how much sway I still have with him.”

“How did Rochefort find out about all this anyway?” d’Artagnan asked. “He’s only been in Paris a few months. How does a man who spent five years in a Spanish prison suddenly have connections inside this city?”

Treville could only shrug in response. “I wish I knew. But whatever his connections, I fear his influence will only grow if we cannot find a way to stop him.”

Voices in the hallway caught their attention and Treville turned just as Flea returned, leading Tommen, Felix and two guards.

Despite the dark bruises and swelling on his face. Tommen’s eyes flashed in anger, still looking quite formidable even though his hands were bound and the guards held firmly to his arms. 

“So I am to be sacrificed for the good of the Court,” Tommen spat. 

“You are to be held accountable for your crimes,” Treville corrected. “You abducted a King’s Musketeer and held him against his will. From what I understand you attempted to kill Aramis and Athos once you realized things were not going to go your way. There must be accountability for any society to work.”

Tommen huffed. “And what about his accountability?” He thrust his chin toward Aramis who was now sitting up on the edge of the settee. “He killed our King yet we received no justice.”

Surprisingly, it was the young man, Felix, who answered. “You know what happened,” he accused. “I think you always knew. Just refused to see things for what they were. If we are to survive, we must abide by the laws that govern every other citizen of Paris.” He glanced at Flea who returned his gaze with one of pride. “We may not always agree with those laws, and they may sometimes seem harsh or unfair, but only through cooperation will we prove we are worthy.”

“Words,” Tommen laughed. He leaned closer to Felix, trying to intimidate the smaller man, but the lad didn’t flinch. “You will find someday your ideals are not enough to keep you warm and fed.” 

Flea gave the guards a flick of her head and the hustled Tommen out the door, Treville following on their heels.

“It seems you have at least one convert,” d’Artagnan noted.

“Thanks to you,” she smiled. “Apparently, after your forced companionship Felix has a new found respect for the King’s Musketeers. I am indebted.” She bowed her head to the young Musketeer, who flushed before quickly following Treville out the door.

“He’s cute,” Flea teased as she turned back to Porthos. She poured a glass of water from a carafe and sat down on the edge of the settee before offering it to her old lover.

“He’s young,” Porthos countered. “Not to mention taken.”

“Lucky girl.”

“You are shameless,” the big man grinned. “First Aramis, now d’Artagnan. Is Athos next on your list?”

She glanced back at the man in question who simply raised a brow, a ghost of a smile lighting one corner of his mouth. He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement before placing one hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

“I believe it is time for us to go.”

“But I’m wounded,” Aramis argued, fighting to keep the smile from his face. “You said so yourself.”

“And you said you were fine,” Athos countered levelly. 

“I always say I’m fine.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to consider a different strategy.”

“Honesty comes to mind,” Porthos offered helpfully.

“Yet I am being dragged away regardless.” Aramis heaved a dramatic sigh. He held up a hand, allowing Athos to pull him from the comfortable seat. He didn’t miss the way the swordsman’s grip held him as his balance teetered momentarily, nor the feeling of Porthos’ eyes on him as his vision tilted before quickly leveling out. 

“I’m fine,” he assured out of habit.

Athos sighed. “He’s a work in progress.”

Aramis ignored him and turned to Flea, taking her hand in his and placing a chaste kiss on the soft skin. “I thank you for your hospitality, Mademoiselle.”

“You are quite welcome, Monsieur.” She rose and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. “I am sorry for all that happened to you, Aramis, but I did enjoy our time together. You are an interesting and entertaining captive.”

Aramis grinned, delighted at the teasing glint in the woman’s eyes. “I aim to please.”

With a quick wink to Porthos, he allowed Athos to guide him from the room.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos rolled his eyes at the marksman’s cheeky grin, ignoring the smirk on Flea’s face as she resumed her place next to him on the settee.

“He’s very charming,” she teased.

“Very,” Porthos agreed, pulling her closer. “I can be quite charmin’ myself.”

“Yes, you can,” she agreed. “I’m beginning to believe it’s part of a Musketeer’s training.”

“I think Athos would prove you wrong.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I think his feigned indifference is endearing.”

“Endearing,” Porthos chuckled. “Not a word used to describe Athos often.” He pulled her even closer, their faces only inches apart, their breath mingling in the warm air. 

She placed a hand on his chest, gently pushing, creating space between them. Her eyes dropped for a moment before meeting his, her face taking on a more serious expression. “I hope that from now on, though my people will still be wary of the Red Guard, the Musketeers will be welcome in the Court of Miracles.”

“Is that your way of inviting me to visit more often?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” she admitted. “Though you may find you are not as welcome as you’d hoped.”

He nodded, knowing that whatever relationship they may once have had was no longer possible. He’d known it all along, but he couldn’t help but keep the one small spark of hope alive.

“I’m sorry, Porthos.”

He shook his head, his smile sad but accepting. “We live in different worlds now. I know that.” He took both her hands and held them up to his lips, relishing in the smooth warmth on his face. “If you ever need me for anythin’…” He didn’t bother to finish, knowing she understood the offer for what it was.

Flea nodded, running one hand down his cheek, her smile tender. “I know.”

Mmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis and Athos were waiting for him when he stepped onto the street, the marksman slouched on a barrel, leaning back against the wall to the left of the doorway, the swordsman next to him, hat pulled low. Both heads rose immediately as Porthos shuffled onto the uneven cobblestones. 

“You waitin’ up for me?”

Aramis shrugged. “Athos believes neither of us should be left to our own devises, considering.” He pointed to his head. “Besides, I figured you wouldn’t be long.”

“You did, huh?” Porthos wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted.

“You forget, I am quite versed in the ways of the softer sex.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Porthos waved a hand in dismissal. Despite knowing he and Flea would never be together, it still hurt. The last thing he needed was to be reminded of it.

Aramis slid down off the barrel and approached, slinging an arm over the larger man’s shoulder. “I know how you feel. Love is a fickle mistress, but one we are better having than not.”

Porthos chuckled, knowing his friend had seen his share of heartbreak. “If anyone would know, it would be you.” 

Aramis threw a glance toward Athos who rolled his eyes in exasperation at the marksman’s plaintive expression. 

“All too well, my friend. All too well.”

The End.

 

_Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. I still have two more in progress, so hopefully I’ll be bck soon. Summer has to end eventually, right? ☺_


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